


Folded Cards and Golden Saints

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pon Farr, star trek big bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:56:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for this prompt (http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1057300), but turned into my Star Trek Big Bang. Jim and Spock get stuck on a desert planet. While Spock is fine, Jim doesn't react well to the heat, and quickly grows too weak to help with anything. As Spock is struggling to take care of Jim and find a way back onto the Enterprise, the native inhabitants of the planet are struggling to capture them - and put them up for sacrifice. Survival fic; bond fic; pon farr fic; eventual Kirk/Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folded Cards and Golden Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Imagine Dragons song 'Demons'. A large chunk of the plot taken from Anonymous on the Star Trek Into Darkness Kink Meme. All of the main characters belong to Gene Rodenbury. Gandalf belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.
> 
> Link to the fanmix: http://peculiaritea.livejournal.com/120992.html 
> 
> Link to the art will be up soon.

\- part i - 

Spock closes his eyes as his body slowly de-materializes, and when he opens them again, he’s standing in the middle of a jungle.

Without looking around, he can tell it’s an oasis; his senses, so attuned to Vulcan, recognize the desert immediately. Even months after the destruction of his planet, he considers it normal: the smell of the sand and the sharp heat of the breeze. Beside him, Jim stiffens, glancing back and forth between the trees.

“Where are we?” Jim asks. Unsure, Spock doesn’t reply. They had intended to beam down to the center of the Myatan’s capital city - a metropolis in every sense of the word, and the antithesis of the setting they are in now. They must have the wrong coordinates, Spock concludes. Of course, this is likely only a simple mistake: as they are going to be the first Federation members to set foot on Myata, Starfleet did not have the numbers previously catalogued, so the Myatan’s had sent them over. There is, Spock calculates, a ninety point seven eight six percent chance that their current situation is the result of an error in the Myatan’s records, or a typo in the coordinates they sent to the Enterprise. “Do you think we should beam back up?”

Spock considers the query as he glances around them. While there seem to be no predators in the immediate vicinity, the planet is foreign to him, and it would be foolish to assume they are not in danger. “Affirmative, Captain,” he says, and Jim, still frowning slightly, nods. 

“Right.” Raising his communicator, he says, “Kirk to Enterprise.” There is no response. Frowning deeper, Jim repeats himself. “Mr. Scott? We need beam up, immediately.” Still, the device in his hands stays silent. 

“There must be a frequency overriding our signal, Captain,” Spock says. He himself leaves his communicator in his belt, but he has one hand on his phaser, ready to draw it at the slightest provocation. He calculates that the odds of their stranding being accidental having dropped to seventy six point two three four percent.

When the Enterprise had first received the orders for their current mission, Jim had decided that he and Spock would go alone to the planet’s surface, instead of a full landing party. His reasoning, as he had presented it to Spock, was that the Federation’s relationship with Myata was precarious at best. Therefore, he deemed it prudent to keep their interactions with the Myatan’s to the minimum - a sentiment Spock found logical, even if he did not wholly agree with the idea of Jim’s part. The probability that Jim would be injured was too high to proceed without proper protection; but, of course, when Spock had tried to explain this to Jim, he was easily waved off. “You’re my security guard, Spock,” Jim had said, an indecipherable emotion playing behind the smile on his lips. While Spock did appreciate the faith and trust Jim showed him, it was incorrect to assume Spock could protect him from anything. When Spock pointed this out, however, Jim simply laughed.

Now Jim’s brow furrows as he looks down at his communicator. Flipping it open, he starts to pry at the back panel. “Maybe I could -”

A noise rises from the trees to their right, undeniably animalistic in nature and reverberating like a snake’s hiss, and Jim cuts himself off to listen to the end. It sounds aggravated, agitated, but fades rather quickly into the silence of the air. Jim waits a moment longer before resuming his work on the communicator - but, just then, the creature hisses again. Replacing the back of his communicator and tucking it back into his belt, Jim takes a step back, closer to Spock.

“Spock, do you -” Before Jim can finish his sentence, there’s another hiss, and then a scaly paw pushes out from between the fern fronds. It’s huge - as large as Jim’s head and ringed with claws as long as his palm. The odds of their predicament being accidental, Spock calculates, is now only thirty four point six seven eight percent.

Beside him, Jim does not show any signs of fear. “Spock,” he says again, but this time his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. It still manages to carry an undeniably authoritative tone. “We need a plan.”

Another paw appears in the underbrush. “I agree,” Spock replies just as quietly. “However, it would be illogical to devise a strategy before we know, at the very least, what the creature looks like.”

Jim nods slightly, a jerk of his head that could easily go unnoticed. “Just in case, though - I go left, you go right.” Spock opens his mouth and is about to confirm his compliance when, from behind them, there is a rustle of leaves and another hiss.

Jim freezes, eyes widening. For a moment, he stands there - whether gathering his courage or taking a deep breath, Spock does not know; he does not pretend to understand the delicacies of human thought - before he, almost reluctantly, turns. Spock waits, and is surprised a moment later when a hand reaches out to grasp his upper arm. Jim squeezes Spock’s arm once, and Spock turns his head, very slightly, just enough to see what Jim is looking at out of the corner of his eye.

Immediately, illogically, he wishes he hadn’t.

Sitting in the underbrush, forked tongue flicking out of it’s mouth, is a reptile with paws the size of replicator plates, who, from head to tail, stretches at least fifteen feet. It’s scales are hard, and carry the appearance of leather, but it’s coloring is more desert-like then Spock would have anticipated - indeed, far from the mix of blues and greens common to rainforest reptiles, it is brown and beige, like shades of a human’s skin. Judging by the size of it’s paws, its at least as large as the other reptile, if not larger - which means, Spock figures, they have two fifteen-foot-long reptiles to handle.

Jim squeezes Spock’s arm again, and Spock turns his gaze from the reptile to Jim, making sure to keep the first reptile in his line of vision. It’s nose is now poking from the underbrush. 

Back to back, Jim mouthes at him. He is not looking at Spock, his eyes still glued to the large reptile, but Spock still gives a small nod. He knows Jim will see the movement.

As the smaller reptile’s head finally breaks free of the fern fronds, the larger reptile hisses; this time, it carries more menace and the faintest tone of a growl. The smaller reptile mimics the movement, flaps of skin behind its ears rising. “Spock,” Jim murmurs, tone sharp even though his voice is quiet. Spock can barely catch the words, but somehow the noise is enough; with jerk of is tail, the larger reptile lunges forward, and the smaller one follows suit.

And then they’re fighting.

Spock quickly becomes too preoccupied with the male reptile to tell how Jim is faring with his own; a distressing though, considering that Spock is stronger then Jim but his reptile is weaker. The first time the reptile charges, Spock attempts to fire the phaser at its head, but the shot simply rebounds off the creature’s scales, and Spock has to dart out of the way. He turns and continues firing, but the reptile simply changes directions and recharges unhindered. Spock’s next shot almost hits an eye, but the creature’s inner eyelid snaps shut before it strikes, and he has to roll out of the way again.

As the creature once more clumsily turns, Spock runs through his options; the reptile’s scales are clearly impenetrable, and as such the only way he can see to truly injure it would be to coerce it into opening its mouth. Then he could attempt phaser fire - but, no, the odds of success are highly improbable. Even when the creatures hiss, only their tongues emerge from their mouthes, and their lips do not open. That makes it unlikely they’ll open their mouthes for anything other then food.

“Uh!”

It’s Jim. For a brief moment, the back of his body knocks against Spock’s, heavy and limp. Spock can hear his breathing, feel the rise of his chest through their shoulders - Jim is panting hard, and his breaths are ragged. Then Jim pushes himself off of Spock, using the point of their contact as leverage.

“Damn scaly bastard. You’re a fucking - uh!” Jim’s voice cuts off, suddenly, as the air escapes his chest, and there is a sickening crunch as his body hits the ground. If Spock were human, he would say his heart stopped in his chest. As it is, it merely falters, but a wave of adrenaline still rushes through his body.

Jim, Spock thinks, as his limbs begin to buzz with newfound energy. Energy and anger.

The larger reptile, the one Jim had been fighting, hisses; Spock is likely imagining it, but he thinks it sounds pleased. There’s the sound of its tongue, sliding against its smooth scales, and then a pop - jaws being released. Spock eyes narrow at its pleasure, a strategy quickly forming itself in his mind.

In one sharp movement, he spins around, points his phaser into the surprised reptile’s open mouth and, before it can snap it shut, fires. Then he drops into a roll, dodging the smaller reptile’s paw and coming up next to Jim’s prone body.

There is a brief moment where time seems to slow: Spock can feel the breeze brushing against his face, can smell the reptile’s thick blood, can hear his own, pulsing through his veins. Then the moment breaks, and there is a thud as the reptile, who had been standing on its hind legs, falls to the ground. Spock keeps his phaser pointed outward, towards the smaller reptile, and just stares at it, trying to convey his power in the look. He feels like it is glaring at him, but instead of attacking, it hisses, and retreats back into the underbrush.

Spock stays there for a moment to make sure its out of range. Only once the rustling of the leaves has started to fade into the distance does he finally unlock his legs from their crouched position and set down his phaser. As dangerous as it may be, Jim needs his attention.

Jim is laying face down in the dirt, his arms sprawled out of either side of him, one knee bent to the side. Spock doesn’t have to check for a pulse - he can hear Jim’s breath in his lungs, his heartbeat in his chest - but he does anyway, more to put his mind at rest than anything. The pulse is faint, but it’s there, and so Spock takes Jim’s shoulders and rolls him onto his back.

Jim’s face shifts at the movement, almost like a wince, but he’s clearly unconscious, because the rest of his body remains limp. Spock is weighing the odds - trying to figure out when Jim will wake up based on physical damage, past recovery times to injuries, heart rate and the pace of his breathing -

“Welcome to Es-den.”

The voice comes from behind Spock, and Spock jolts up at it, torn from his calculations as his fingers flying to his phaser. He has to resist the urge to grab Jim and run as he scans the forest, searching for the source of the voice. But there is nothing - just shadows and silence.

“We have been waiting for you.” This time, Spock is ready, and so he is able to triangulate the noise, which is how he notices the shadowy figure a moment before it steps out into the sunlight. It’s an old man; his back is curved slightly from age, and he’s holding a cane. Blue and green robes fall to his feet, obscuring his figure and concealing any weapons he may hold. “Who are you?” Spock asks. “I demand to know why you brought us here.”

The man seems amused by his words; there is a half-smile on his face, what Jim would call a smirk. “You cannot demand anything from us,” he says. “You are ours.” The words chill Spock to the bone, but not as much as what happens next - the all at once, simultaneous chorus of hissing that rises form the trees, so perfectly synchronized it sounds rehearsed, with an incontestably malicious and angry tone. Spock blinks, and he is suddenly aware of a dozen pairs of eyes gleaming out from between the trees. They surround he and Jim on three sides, cutting off most of the forest. Spock lays a protective hand on Jim’s chest.

“We do not belong to anyone,” Spock says. The man snorts, and then again, and then it turns into laughter. It is an unnatural sound that echoes against unseen canyons and ripples across the waters of a nonexistent ocean.

“We shall have to show you then, won’t we?” he says, a crackle of laughter in his voice and his smile wider now - almost splitting his cheeks. He lifts his staff, knocking it against the ground. The noise is hollow, and immediately the reptiles in the surrounding trees stiffen and cease their hissing. “A’vi,” the man says, voice low and guttural. It’s a language Spock has never heard before, and certainly never learned, but Spock doesn’t have time to dwell on it for long, because at his word, the reptiles attack. 

Later, Spock will run the odds and be unable to recall how he did it. He will find his chance of success to be less than two percent; the more logical route, the one he was hardwired to take, would have been to escape by himself, and leave Jim unconscious on the ground. It would not have been a choice to be proud of, but he could claim it was necessary for his survival, and he could tell the truth. Less than two percent is hardly logical odds to gamble upon.

But he gambles upon them anyway.

His movements are fast. As soon as the first reptile snout breaks out from between the leaves, he is grabbing Jim by the waist and standing, using his hard-earned strength and the rush of adrenaline to throw him over his shoulder. Jim’s communicator is still lying on the ground, somewhere, where it fell when he was knocked unconscious, but Spock doesn’t have time to look for it. He barely has time to turn on his heel and run.

Reptile tails flick in the air behind him as Spock sprints across the forest floor. The old man doesn’t say anything that Spock can hear, but he feels the vibrations of the cane as it hits the ground again - stronger, this time, than before. He also hears it the exact moment the creatures give chase, snapping twigs and branches under their heavy feet. He runs faster.

Spock doesn’t know how far he runs with them on his tail. Logically, he knows his body would be incapable of handling more then ten minutes at this speed, with this weight, but it seems like much longer. His legs start to go numb, and he starts to feel like his feet are going to give out from under him - and, just then, he spot a light at the end of the tunnel of branches. Quite literally, for the broken pathway he is following is petering out, and at the edge of it, in the distance, at the end of his line of sight, there is a yellow light shining from between two overgrown ferns. He knows without knowing.

The desert.

He runs.

When he finally breaks through the trees, he knows he has escaped them; the vibrations form their paws cease reverberating at the edge of the rainforest. It is as though they cannot leave it’s confines. Aware of how incapable he is at traveling further, and more exhausted then he can ever remember being, Spock makes himself run one more half-kilometer. Finally, when he reaches the slope of a sand dune, he lets himself stop. He drops to his knees under the meagre shade it provides, lets Jim’s body slide off his shoulder. All across the horizon, for as far as Spock can see, is desert.

He puts his head down, digs his fists in the sand, and breathes.

-

Even after the sun begins to slip behind the trees, Jim has not woken up.

After recovering his breath and lowering his heart rate, Spock had quickly assessed their situation; he'd climbed partially to the top of the sand dune (as far as he could go and still keep Jim in his sightline) and had managed to ascertain that they were directly outside a circular, twenty point six kilometer wide oasis. As far as he could tell in any direction they were completely surrounded by desert. Miles and miles of sand, rolling dunes, and heat. No buildings or technology, or indeed any other signs of an advanced society. It appeared almost as though they had been transported to an uninhabited sector of Vulcan.

(Of course, Spock knew this was both impossible and untrue, but it still raised a hint of nostalgia and wistfulness inside him, which he had trouble suppressing.)

After he had finished his surveying, Spock had found it a short matter to compile a list of the emergency supplies they would require, and then to set about finding them. He’d sorted through the packs and found they had sufficient food and water to last a night, but no longer. They did, however, have an emergency tent; he must have forgotten to take it out of his pack after their last away mission. Normally, he might be annoyed at the inefficiency, but now he was grateful. It was the only reason they had shelter for the night. 

He’d also ventured out to find firewood. The desert was barren, but he went just close enough to the forest to read a fallen, rotten tree. He felt the reptiles gaze the entire time he was gathering wood, and he had to work quickly and return to the camp.

Spock sets up the fire as close to their tent as he can make it without posing a fire hazard, and then he prepares the spare wood, plenty to keep the fire burning throughout the entire night. Then Spock settles in to wait. As Jim shows no signs of waking soon - he slept as though he had head trauma, though Spock had checked and found none - Spock will need to keep watch all night. The situation is unfortunate, but not as much so as it could be. As he's explained to Jim and Doctor McCoy multiple times, Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans. In fact, in stressful or dangerous situations, it is often possible for them to go weeks without sleep.

Not that it will be pleasant - Spock's previous exertions has tired him, and he has been unable to find supplementary food or water to the meagre supplies from his pack - but it cannot be helped.

Spock stays there for almost an hour, warming himself by the flames as the air grows steadily colder, feeding the fire more logs when it begins to snap and pop. For a brief period of time, he examines the communicators, neither of which are working, but he doesn't find any flaws in their circuits or frequency settings. He spends some time thinking, in a half-meditative state. He thinks about the Enterprise - their lack of communications and the chances they will send down a search party (ninety two point six two one percent), and Nyota, very briefly. He also thinks about Jim, in the tent over. Slightly less briefly. But he doesn't consider Jim temperature - or at least, not until a shudder comes from inside the tent.

Confused, Spock pushes himself up from the fire, heads over to the tent and pushes aside the flap. Jim is laid out across the sand, supine, with his limbs spread eagled, shivering violently, wracked with tremors from head to toe. Spock's confusion is momentary; it only takes him a short moment to connect Jim’s state to the heat. Of course. Jim is human; of his course his body is incapable of withstanding these temperatures. Spock feels a stab of guilt at his forgetfulness. His body may be accustomed to the desert, but Jim's is not - his body temperature fluctuates at a level almost ten degrees lower then that of Spock's.

For a second, Spock doesn't know what to do - he could try to drag Jim out by the fire, but as he's unsure of the extent and location of Jim's injuries, any movement could worsen them. He could also attempt to shift the tent closer to the fire, but that presents a potential fire hazard. And aside from letting Jim freeze to death, the only remaining option is to share his body heat with Jim. 

But - Jim is a private person. He'd find the prospect displeasing, if he were conscious and able to share his opinions. And besides possibly upsetting Jim, the idea presents potential dangers. Without Spock keeping watch, any number of creatures could attack in the night, or the fire could spread to their supplies.

As Spock considers this, another violent shiver shakes the tent, its plastic sides. Spock re-weighs his options; he would need more data to be certain, but he believes the chances of an animal attacking them to be around thirty-eight percent, considering average desert life. Fourteen percent considering the lack of it that Spock had observed on this planet. However, the odds of Jim developing a severe form of hypothermia is sixty-seven point eight nine percent. The logical choice is clear, but... Spock considers Jim's emotions and how they play into the equation, but after much deliberation and another shudder from inside the tent, he decides they are currently irrelevant. Clearly, in this instance, Spock will have to risk his friendship with Jim to protect him. It is not a concept he is unfamiliar with. Taking one last glance around the darkness of the campsite, Spock crawls inside the tent, laying down next to Jim.

Jim's skin is always cold compared to Spock's, but now it seems downright frigid. Moving gingerly, Spock turns Jim on his side and does the same himself, so they are facing the same direction. Jim's brow furrows almost imperceptibly at the movement, but eventually he relaxes again. Now, though, he's relaxing back into Spock, back pressed against Spock's chest, with Spock's arm wrapped around his waist. Spock believes the human term for it is 'spooning'.

Jim still shivers for several minutes, but the prolonged exposure to Spock's body heat seems to counteract the desert temperature easily; after only half an hour, Jim is relaxed into boneless sleep. Spock considers for several moments how Jim would react if he were awake - almost definitely negatively, possibly angrily and likely defensively. He's always expressed a displeasure at being taken care of. His interactions with Doctor McCoy alone are enough to prove Spock's point.

Despite this, Spock stays in the tent for the rest of the night, dozing in and out of consciousness.

\- part ii -

Spock takes a step forward, careful not to snap the branch beneath his foot, and narrows his eyes at his prey.

This morning, Spock had woken up early, before the sun had even fully risen, and extracted himself from the tent without waking Jim. After cleaning up the remains of last night's fire, he had once more attempted to contact the Enterprise through their broken communicators - and, when that failed, he attempted to fashion a device out of their parts. In that, too, he was unsuccessful. 

He had delayed the inevitable search for food as long as he could, hoping Jim would wake before he left, but finally the sun hit the mid-point in the sky, and he could stall no longer. He left with his phaser and the water bottle from his pack, and resigned himself to take a short look for food and water, and return to Jim as soon as possible.

After searching the forest for over an hour, Spock was minority successful; while he has yet to find any vegetation that he can declare, with any level of confidence, edible, he found a stream three point seven kilometers away from their campsite. The water appears clear and relatively clean of toxins or harmful minerals, and it is sufficiently close to the edge of the rainforest that they can potentially frequent it without threat from the reptiles. Additionally, Spock has discovered this animal - the one he is currently stalking. Similar in form to a tree rat, the animal is covered in bristly feathers and scales on its paws. After some observance, and noting that it ate worms and grubs it plucked from the ground, Spock had decided it was likely edible (though, without more information, it was impossible to figure the exact percentages of probability). Spock had then begun to stalk it.

The creature, however, was remarkably good and avoiding detection; each time Spock thought he had it in his sights, it would suddenly slip behind a tree branch, or dart into a hollow log. It was frustrating, certainly, but also dangerous, as the longer Spock stayed in the forest, the more likely it became that he would be detected and attacked. And if that happened, it was extremely improbable he would be able to defend himself.

The tree-rat Spock is stalking is sitting on the thick branch of a tree. As Spock watches, it scurries back and forth along the bark, like it is incapable of sitting still, its teeth chattering. Slowly, Spock raises his phaser to eye level, closing one eye and fixing his aim on a point in the tree. Then, just as the tree-rat changes direction, he shoots.

The tree-rat doesn’t have time to react. The shot hits it full-on in the chest, and, squeaking, it tumbles off the tree-limb, landing on the forest floor. Glancing down quickly at his phaser, Spock changes the strength setting back to the highest level; he had been forced to lower it so he did not obliterate the tree-rat. Then, keeping it at the ready, he goes to retrieve the tree-rat’s corpse.

He tries not to think about the life he has just taken; his remorse is illogical. After all, its death was necessary, if not for his own survival, then for Jim’s, and if he has to choose between a tree-rat’s life and Jim’s, Jim will always be his choice. It is possibly illogical. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, after all (though he’s not sure if this applies to his current situation; how do animals lives measure up against humans?). But this is still his answer, and it will not change.

Without a bag or rope to hang the rat off of, Spock has to carry the carcass back to the campsite by it's feet. They are strangely similar to birds, three pronged with toes made of only bones and ligaments covered in a thin layer of wrinkled skin. Spock picks his way through the underbrush, ignoring the well-worn trails used by larger animals in favor of thick mud, rich soil, and areas less likely to be frequented by the reptiles. As he nears the edge of the forest, Spock notices a patch of grass with thick enough stems that it could be capable of holding water; he collects some of it to try weaving.

Despite the fact that he had left in mid-morning and intended to be gone for only an hour, Spock does not make it back to the tent until long after noon, when the sun has started slipping behind the horizon to the left. As Spock draws closer to the camp, he realizes there is a figure sitting by the pile of ashes from last night's fire - Jim. He must have woken while Spock was away. Spock allows himself a moment to feel relieved. From his vantage point, Spock can make out the broken communicator in Jim's hands - the one he is now turning over and over again, for no apparent reason.

“Jim,” Spock says, and Jim turns immediately. Spock barely has time to catch the plain concern and worry on his face before it melts into relief. 

“Spock! You’re alright!” He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly. For a moment, Spock is concerned, but Jim seems to steady himself easily enough, and so Spock puts it down as a side effect to the injuries he has sustained the day before. “It was - weird, waking up, you weren’t here, I didn’t -”   
“I apologize, Captain,” Spock says. “I needed to retrieve food and water - I understand you must be very disoriented.”   
“That’s - an understatement,” Jim says. He is still dressed in his clothes he had slept in - his uniform pants pants and his socks - and his chest is red from where the sun has burnt his skin. Without his shirt, Jim’s chest is barred, and so Spock can clearly see the bruises littering his skin, his ribs and solar plexus. He knows that if Jim were to turn around, he would see them lining his spine as well. “Where are we?”

Jim’s voice jerks Spock out of his reverie; he swallows as he pulls his gaze back up to Jim’s face. Jim is not looking at him. His eyes are fixed on the distant horizon line of the sand. 

“A half-kilometer outside of the oasis,” Spock says, laying the tree-rat, water bottle and grass beside the ashes before making his way around them towards the firewood. “You have been unconscious for over a day.”

Spock does not see Jim’s reaction, as he is not looking at him, but he hears the surprise in his voice. “A day? Wow.” Spock locates the three branches he was looking for - they are the longest and thinnest ones he has gathered, more adequately described as sticks then branches, and will function well as a spit for the tree-rat. “Why are - how did we get out here?”

Spock picks up the pieces of wood he was searching for and turns back towards the fire. Jim is still standing in the same place as before, but he is no longer looking at the rainforest. Now, he is looking at Spock, though his expression has not changed. It still resembles a combination of awe and confusion.

"After you lost consciousness, the reptiles were sufficiently distracted that I was able to decommission one of them. The other fled. However, shortly before I attempted to wake you, an elderly man appeared, as well as many more reptiles." Spock sets down the branches by the ashes, and kneels so he can begin assembling them. "He wielded a staff that seemed to have some control over them, and using it he gave them an order - spoken in a language I could not decipher - and they attacked us. I had to carry you with me as I ran. They chased me, but stopped when I reached the edge of the forest, which leads me to believe that they are unable or unwilling to leave its confines." Spock does not look at Jim as he says this, and nor does he look at him afterwards. He does not wish to embarrass Jim (a prominent human emotion, and an intensely uncomfortable one that he has experienced himself several times before) for he is aware that Jim may see being carried by Spock as a sign of weakness. Instead, Spock busies himself studying the sticks and branches.

There is a pause after Spock speaks where Jim does not say anything. It’s a long pause, and an uncomfortable one, and Spock is almost beginning to regret telling Jim about the situation when Jim lays a hand on Spock’s shoulder, warm and firm. Spock jolts; it is unexpected contact, and he cannot help his reflexes. Jim, though, does not move his hand. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. It is so dissimilar to the reaction Spock had anticipated that he is taken completely unprepared. All he can manage is a nod.

“You are welcome, Jim.”

The long tension is broken when Jim clears his throat and takes his hand off Spock’s shoulder. “Well, all right, then! So we’re stuck in a desert. We’ve got food and water - is that everything we have?”

As Spock begins to erect the spit, he reviews their supplies with Jim. Since they had intended to come to Myata for a diplomatic meeting, they lack most basic survival equipment - other then, of course, the supplies Spock accidentally brought, which consists of their tent, Spock's water bottle, several emergency blankets, a few ration bars, and a fire starter. 

Jim offers to pluck and skin the tree rat, since Spock killed it. Spock allows him this, even though he would likely accomplish the same task faster and more efficiently. Jim likely requires something to do with his hands. (Another strange human trait, one his mother often displayed.) Indeed, it does take Jim longer to pluck and skin the tree rat then it would have taken Spock - and, if Spock is being truthful, longer then he had anticipated.

While Jim works, Spock busies himself with the grass he had found in the forest. Weaving it, he finds, is more difficult then he had thought, for while it is soft and pliable, it cracks easier then it bends, and he wastes a good deal of it before he discovers how to knot it properly.

After Jim finally finishes preparing the rat, Spock mounts it on the spit over the fire. “So,” Jim says as Spock turns the rat; it is bubbling in a way that a meat-eater might find pleasant, but which just makes Spock’s stomach turn. “Have you been able to contact the Enterprise?”

Spock can hear the carefully concealed weight behind Jim’s words, the faint hope mingled with anxiety. Spock feels a pang of regret at having to tell this to Jim - which, he reminds himself, is illogical. “Negative, Captain,” Spock says, and pretends not to see the way Jim’s face falls. “However, perhaps you could find a solution where I could not.”  
 “Nah, I doubt it,” Jim says, sounding down-trodden. “I mean, you’re as good as me at that stuff, but even if you weren’t, what is there to check? The circuitry? The frequency? I mean, I’m pretty sure the fault isn’t in our equipment.”

Spock tilts his head. “Granted, Captain. However, I may have missed something obvious. You could not damage anything by looking it over.”

“I gu - hey, did you see that?” Jim is not looking at the fire - his eyes are locked on the forest. He rises from where he was sitting, cross-legged, on the sand, and his gaze does not stray. Curious, Spock follows his stare. He is looking into the jungle, but his eyes are not locked on any trees, are set further behind them at something Spock cannot see.

“I do not understand what you are referring to.”

"The - " Jim cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I can't see it anymore. I need to get a better vantage point." He turns, studying the face of the sand dune for a moment, before picking the path that Spock had followed that morning, and starting up it.

The sand is pressed down, still, from Spock's boots, but Spock knows it is a hard path to climb - even harder so for Jim, unexperienced and weakened from his injury. Jim could fall, or trip. As Jim hoists himself up onto the first ridge of sand, Spock gets to his feet and follows him.

Jim moves slowly climbing the sand, much slower than Spock had that morning, but he still passes Spock’s highest point relatively quickly and continues to progress onward. Glancing behind them at their still-burning fire, Spock wonders what Jim is doing; from what he can see of the forest, there is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he had not seen this morning.

Finally, they reach a hundred feet of height, and Jim stops. Spock is grateful - from this point, the path grows increasingly treacherous, and Spock would have had to restrain Jim from climbing further if he had tried. “Here!” Jim turns away from the desert, pressing his back against the sand dune and balancing his feet carefully, so he is facing the jungle. “There! You can see it from here - look!”

Spock turns, following Jim’s gaze and outstretched finger. It takes him a moment to see what Jim is pointing at - at first, the forest looks normal, a sea of green treetops dotted with colorful blooms. Nothing out of the ordinary, certainly - until Spock spots it. In the dead center of the oasis, where there might normally be a lake or a spring or an underground river, there is something large - like a building, and glinting gold.

“What do you think it is?” Jim asks, craning his neck as though it will make a difference. It will not, but Spock does not point that out; he is not paying attention. He is too preoccupied with the towering mass of metal protruding from between the two palm trees. A ray of sunlight breaks out from between two fronds, illuminating it’s tip, the steeple pointing up towards the heavens.

“Is that - is that a temple?”

-

They head down the side of the sand dune a few minutes later, when the light starts to fade and it becomes harder to see the path down the edge. They can't see anything else just standing there. Spock follows Jim closely the whole path down, not touching him but ready to, in case he slips or trips.

They sit in front of the fire for a while, and eat their tree rat when it's done cooking. Jim is incredibly excited, keeps theorizing over why there is a temple in the middle of the desert, where these people could have come from. All of his theories are either too far-fetched to be considered plausible or too vague to present any concrete ideas, but Spock allows him to speculate. It seems to reassure him, at the very least.

At night, the temperature drops quickly. Spock keeps the fire as large as he possibly can, but even huddled directly in front of the flames, Jim is shivering. Eventually, he falls asleep propped a feet feet away, by the spare firewood. Spock briefly weighs the merits of allowing him to remain in front of the fire, but decides it's too risky; however, the previous night's solution had been successful. Logically, Spock should do the same tonight. 

But when Spock goes to move Jim, he finds he is incredibly hot; his skin, while still cold compared to Spock's, is covered with sweat and clammy. If Spock had to estimate, he would say it was somewhere between thirty-eight and thirty-nine degrees centigrade - incredibly warm, for a human.

Spock frowns down at Jim's flushed face. What could be causing this? He doesn't have any open wounds, it is not an infection, but - but they're in the middle of a desert. Spock hadn't thought of it before, and he curses himself for the oversight now, but the temperature is obviously too high for Jim's body to deal with. He’d considered the lower temperatures at night, but the heat during the day... At almost forty degrees centigrade, it's lower then Vulcan, but higher then almost all of Earth. 

For a moment, Spock sits back on his heels and tries to decide what to do. Would it be better to keep him warm, and attempt to break the fever? Or should he move him away from the fire, to try and cool him down?

In the end, Spock just brings Jim inside the tent, and lays behind him in a position much like the night before. It's almost better, this way, because the close contact makes it easier for him to measure Jim's temperature. Warm emotions rise in his chest when he thinks about how close they are - the feelings are deep and powerful and protective, and they are almost impossible to ignore. Still, he does his best.

If he had to quantify it, though, he would say that it felt like someone lit a fire inside his veins.

part iii - 

The next morning, Spock wakes up drenched in sweat.

It does not take him long to realize where it is coming from; Vulcans do not sweat, not like humans and other rainforest species, species with water to spare. When Spock reaches out to press a hand against the back of Jim’s neck, he realizes he is burning up, his temperature a full degree above normal. Quickly, Spock pulls away from Jim, crawling out of the tent.

Outside, the sun is high in the sky - Spock must have slept in late. The heat from the sun and Spock’s body combined - obviously Jim would become overheated. Admonishing himself for his mistake, Spock retrieves the water from beside the firewood and returns to the tent.

Jim has not moved from his position; now that Spock can see his face he can see the frown on it, the creases between his brows from the way his eyes squint. He pours some water over his hand, and brushes it over Jim’s forehead. It does not seem to do much. He takes a little more water and drips it across the back of Jim’s neck. He flinches a bit at the wetness, but he does not otherwise react.

Taking the entire water bottle and regretting the waste even as he acknowledges its necessity, Spock pours half of it over Jim’s face.

Jim does not jolt upward, gasping and shuddering, like Spock had expected; instead he turns his head a little, in his half-sleep, letting the water run in rivulets down his cheek. His eyelids are still squeezed shut, but he’s opening his mouth, now, licking the water from his lips. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open.

“Spock?”   
“Jim.” Spock knows the relief in his voice is palpable, but he does nothing to hide it. “You - you are severely overheated, you need to reduce your body temperature.”   
“I need to - what?” His voice slurs between the words, and Spock cannot tell if this is because he just woke up, or a side effect of his severe dehydration and overheating. “Can I -” Jim pushes himself up into a sitting position, wincing. “Oh, head rush.”

“Perhaps it would be best to lay down,” Spock suggests, but Jim shakes his head.

“No, I’m - I’m fine, I just need a - am I in the tent?”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock says.

“How did I - you know what, I don’t really care. Is there - is there more water, other than the stuff you - poured all over me? Please say yes.”   
“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock says again, and holds out the water bottle. Jim takes it, almost greedily, and finishes most of it in one swallow. Then he caps it, leaving only a mouthful of water left. “Your body temperature is still at an unhealthily high level.”   
“‘m fine, Spock,” Jim says. “It’s kind of stuffy in here, though. Maybe I could -” He gestures to the entrance to the tent, which Spock is currently blocking.

“Of course,” Spock says, retreating from the tent. A moment later, Jim emerges; his hands are shaky as he pushes himself up to a standing position, and his movements are slow. His knees quiver with each step that he takes. “Captain, maybe you should -”

Jim waves a hand at him. “I’m fine, Spock.” He does sit down, though; over by the fire pit, the tower of stacked ash from the night before.

“Your body temperature needs to be reduced.”

Jim sighs. “Maybe, but how are we gonna do that? I think we’re out of water, right?”

“Perhaps if we - perhaps you should not be out in the sun -”

“Okay, I don’t want to be mother-henned, okay, I’m really fine -”  
 “You are not fine, your temperature is extremely high and short of pouring water on you constantly there is nothing -”   
“You’re going to get water today, right?” Jim says suddenly, and it makes Spock pause.

“Of course, Captain. As you said yourself, we have exhausted our current supplies.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“Captain,” Spock says, “I do not believe this is a wise idea -”   
“Why?” Jim asks, and his voice is low and dark. “It’d be good for me, it’d lower my temperature, I think I can make it - what, a kilometer? I’m not weak, Spock.” There is a hint of vulnerability in his tone, in the way he is sitting, facing away from Spock and looking down.

“I am aware of that, Captain,” Spock says, and Jim sighs.  
 “Then don’t treat me like a child,” he says.

And, well - even if Spock had reason to deny Jim, and even if he wasn’t already indecisive about which course of action would be more logical - this would decide it, wouldn’t it, the tone of Jim’s voice and his face, right now, the way his lips are pressed together and the quiet determination in his eyes and how he looks like he should be crossing his arms. Fire itches in Spock’s veins, and protectiveness flares up in his stomach; he ignores them.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Spock says, trying to convey sincerity in his words without conveying it at all. Jim seems to get it; his shoulders relax a bit. “We shall leave as soon as I finish weaving this basket.”   
The expression on Jim’s face could not be called happiness - it is not a smile - but it is close.

-

Slightly over an hour later, Spock is walking through the desert, water containers under one arm and phaser in hand, Jim on his heels.

Jim has remained remarkably silent for their journey so far, despite the heavy winds blowing at them, and the sand swirling up in his eyes. Now that they are out from behind the sand dune, they are at the hardest part of their journey - not really hard for Spock, but that is because he is from the desert. He is in his element. Jim is not. Spock is reluctantly impressed.

They almost make it to the halfway point before Jim says, “Spock?” There is a strange tone to his voice - quiet, and childish, almost. Vulnerable. Spock turns his head and finds Jim standing still, face pale and yet flushed, simultaneously. He is breathing heavily, and bent at the waist, hands on his knees.

“Yes, Jim?”   
“Can we - can we rest, for a second?”   
Spock frowns. “Jim, we are not yet halfway there.”

Jim nods, like that answers his question, even though Spock is aware it did not. “Right, of course. Sorry, I just - needed a second, I guess.” He straightens, taking a deep breath. “Right, carry on, then.”   
Spock doesn’t move. “Jim, if you are incapable of making it to the river -”

“I can do it,” Jim interrupts him. He has the same steely, determined tone to his voice that he did at the campsite. “I’ll be fine, Spock. Let’s just go.”

They start up again, but this time Spock keeps a more watchful eye on Jim. It is not an easy thing to do, considering he is walking to the right of and several feet behind Spock, but he manages well enough. Spock is glad he does, too, because he notices it, several minutes later, when Jim’s footfalls start to drag, and his movements become less coordinated.

“Jim?” Spock asks, continuing walking but keeping his eyes on Jim. “Are you functional?”

“I’m - ‘m -” Jim’s speech is slurred, and it immediately sends a spike of panic through Spock’s chest. Spock stops walking, and turns to face Jim immediately, setting down the water containers on the ground. “Spock- I can’t -” Spock reaches out to grab Jim’s shoulder, to steady him, but he is too late.

Jim slumps back in a dead faint.

-

Spock catches him halfway down, and manages to lower him onto the sand. It’s not safe - the sand is hotter here then at the campsite, warmed by the noontime sun, and it’ll like blister what parts of Jim’s skin it touches, but he doesn’t have a choice. 

He checks Jim’s temperature; it’s well over thirty-nine degrees centigrade, now, and under the heat of the sun - if Spock doesn’t do something to lower it, it’ll likely reach fatal temperatures by nightfall. Spock doesn’t have any options - there is a pain, deep in his chest, and the need to protect Jim is pulsing through him, stinging through his veins with the fire - the fire is back.

He carries Jim the rest of the way to the river - Jim needs water, and shade, neither of which can be found at their camp. In order to carry Jim, he has to abandon their water bottles in the sand, and tuck his phaser into his belt - something he does reluctantly, because it leaves them vulnerable and open to attack. Spock goes as fast as he can without running, because he's fairly certainly he does not have the energy required, his stores having been depleted with exercise and lacking nutrition. There is still a protective feeling itching under his skin, though, so he runs the numbers again, to calm himself. Once, twice, four times - reminding himself over and over that Jim will be fine.

He’ll be fine.

When they get to the river, Spock lays Jim on the damp moss of the bank. Then, using his hands, he starts pouring water over Jim's skin - his face, his neck, his chest. Jim remains unresponsive, but Spock can hear it, the slight decrease in his heart rate, how it goes from eight-nine point six two beats per minute to eighty-two point three. The more water Spock pours over him, the slower it goes, until it steadies at sixty-seven point five.

When the dirt around Jim becomes muddy and wet, Spock finally ceases in his ministrations. Jim's temperature has lower to a less dangerous degree, and Spock is concerned if he keeps soaking Jim his temperature will drop too low. He moves Jim a few feet away, within easy reach of the river but within easy reach of the desert, too, and so that he is no longer lying in a mud puddle. Spock takes a few gulps of the water in the river, and then pulls the phaser from his belt. He briefly considers letting Jim sleep, but they are in an unsafe place, out in the open, an easy target if something - or someone - decides to attack them. And Spock does not trust his ability to get Jim out safely if the reptiles were to reappear. He barely managed to escape with Jim the first time. 

Laying a hand on Jim's shoulder, Spock shakes him slightly. No response, other then a slight spike it heart rate, but it goes down quickly. He tries again, and again - nothing. "Jim," he says, keeping his voice low. "Jim." He shakes his shoulder again. "Jim." Slowly, Jim's eyes begin to flutter open. He blinks, squints at Spock, and closes them again.

“Where are we?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“At the river,” Spock says, and that prompts Jim to open his eyes. “You should drink.”

Jim struggles to push himself up - he has had trouble sitting up three times today already, even though it should be a ridiculously simple act. Spock is concerned. Jim’s condition since landing on the planet - only forty-seven point two three one hours ago - has deteriorated dramatically. He leans over without standing up, cupping his hands and taking a long gulp of water. “Damn, that’s good.” He fills his hands and drinks again.

Spock watches him carefully, cataloguing his movements and noting the differences since before they left the ship: his hands are shaking; he moves more gingerly when shifting weight dependent on his back; and his respiratory rate has increased by thirty two point nine eight nine percent.

“Your body is incapable of regulating itself in this environment.”

JIm pauses for a second, then shrugs and takes another drink of water. “Nothing we can do about it. I mean - we can try to get out of here faster, sure, but that’s about it.”

“I thought you did not believe in no-win situations.” Spock tries not to sound accusing - though he does not know why he should sound accusing, anyway. Jim’s belief or disbelief in something is not relevant to this situation. Judging from Jim’s sigh, he detects it anyway.

“I don’t. But this isn’t really a no-win situation - not one I can fix, anyway. I mean, it’s my body, Spock. I can’t just make myself lower my temperature any more than I could just stop my heart.”

The solution occurs to Spock then, suddenly. “Maybe humans cannot,” he says slowly, “but Vulcans can.”

“Well, that’s great,” Jim says, a slight edge of annoyance in his voice as he looks over at Spock. “But unless you can suddenly turn me into a - hey, woah, wait a second, back up the fucking truck, are you smiling?”   
“No,” Spock says, and indeed he is not - the corner of his lip may have twitched up, slightly, against his will, but he has once again reasserted control over his emotions. “And I do not need to turn you into a Vulcan to control your bodily functions. All I require is temporary control over your mental facilities.” Jim is still frowning, so Spock continues: “I could meld my mind with yours.”

-

“So, how are we going to do this?”   
They had unanimously decided it would be best to wait until they got back to camp; while Jim might be more comfortable here, there was a much larger risk they would be attacked, and both Jim and Spock would be preoccupied during the meld. Spock had retrieved their water containers, reluctantly leaving Jim on the edge of the forest, and filled them. By then, Jim’s body temperature had dropped low enough for him to complete the journey back to their camp, though he was incapable of much else - he collapsed in the tent as soon as they returned. 

“I will enter your mind and use your mind’s core controls to reduce your body temperature to a healthy level.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Well, yes, I know that,” he says. Spock realizes that he is acting strangely - he has been since Spock initially suggested a mind-meld. In Spock’s opinion, his discomfort is excessive. “I just meant - well - will you be able to see anything else? My memories, or whatever.”

“Only what you are thinking of,” Spock says, and wonders why Jim is so apprehensive when he sees him swallow, hard. “Of course, if you are unwilling to submit to a mind-mind -”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll - submit, or whatever you called it.” Jim is still fidgeting. “How long is it going to take?”   
“I am unsure,” Spock says, “but likely only several minutes.”

JIm nods. “Cool, awesome, all right,” he says. “Well, let’s get this show on the road.”

Spock raises an eyebrow at the human idiom. “I do not understand your meaning.”

Jim huffs, but he seems to relax, a little - he stops twisting his fingers together. “Like you haven’t heard that before,” he says. When Spock remains silent, he gives a long-suffering sigh. “It just means let’s get going.” 

“Of course,” Spock says. “Are you comfortable?”   
Jim glances down at the blanket he’s sitting on, rearranges himself. He’s sitting in the open mouth of the tent with Spock directly outside it, a full water bottle within easy reach. He’s already consumed two of them since they returned to camp. It seems to be keeping his temperature at a functional level, at least for the time being. Jim glances up at Spock, clearly waiting for an answer, and flashes a thumbs-up. “I’m good.”

“Well, then - if I may?” He gestures towards Jim’s face, still shrouded in the shade the tent provides, and Jim only hesitates a second before nodding.

“Do your worst,” he says, and Spock does not have time to ask about the meaning of the expression - he believes he has inferred most of it anyway - because he is already reaching out, fingers connecting to the familiar meld points on his face. Jim stiffens beneath his touch, and a foreign emotion tugs deep in Spock’s chest, but he does not have time to dwell on it, or surmise it’s meaning.

“My mind to your mind-”

My thoughts to your thoughts.

Jim’s mind is an enigma. It is a whirlwind of thoughts, a plethora of creation, a thousand ideas rushing through his mind with a thousand tinted memories, all strung up like beads on a thread, a thread made of emotions and beliefs, braided together until they can carry the weight of everything that has happened to him, everything that he is. It is unlike any mind Spock has ever experienced before - there are numbers to be found here, Spock is sure, but they are well-hidden and overshadowed by what Jim finds more important - courage, and humanism.

There is so much happening - so many thoughts and colors layered over each other, like a maze - that it takes Spock a few moments to find his bearings, and a few more to start to push through Jim’s mind, searching for what he came for. His controls - where are a human’s bodily controls?

Spock?   
Jim’s voice is timid, but also self-assured - a quality Spock has found most people have, if not in person, then in the privacy of his own mind. Hello, Jim.

Wow, that’s - weird. Spock can see the thought process that leads up to the conclusion. You’re like - Jesus, I’m so see-through, aren’t I? 

Affirmative.

Jim thinks about rolling his eyes - of course, he does not, but the mental picture he projects is enough. 

Jim seems surprised at the extent of Spock’s psi-abilities. Woah, you seriously got that? This is so fucking freaky.

I can see how you would think that, Spock says, tone amused, then adds, quite literally.

Jim snorts. Anyone who says Vulcans don’t have a sense of humor is a liar.

Quiet, Spock chides him, You are making it too difficult to concentrate on my task.

Of course, this just brings more questions to Jim’s mind - they range from ‘can he see every single thing I’m feel right now, oh shit, he better not be able to’ to ‘am I looking at his mind or am I just looking at his thoughts, will I ever be able to see his mind?’

Currently my shields are up, Jim, Spock says, so you are only receiving my thoughts. However, if you wish, in the future it would be possible for me to share my mind with you. At the moment, however -

Shut up. Yeah, I get it. There’s a moment where Jim clumsily attempts to erect shields - think of nothing, think of nothing seems to be his general train of thought.

A more effective method might include thinking about one thing, and one thing only. Isolate your thoughts. 

Will you be able to see what I’m thinking about?

Not if you do it correctly.

A moment later, a shaky wall appears between Spock and Jim’s thoughts. It’s constant, but not solid - transparent, in some places - and Spock can still catch snippets of Jim’s thoughts.

Spock supposes that will have to do.

Now that Spock has grown used to the workings of Jim's mind, and Jim has stopped distracting him with his thoughts, it is much simpler to find the section of his mind that controls his bodily functions. Not easy, perhaps - Jim's mind is still much too complex for that - but simpler.

After that, it takes Spock only a few moments to lower Jim's temperature. Indeed, it is so simple that he has often wondered why humans never developed the ability to do so. Ps-ablities are an undeniable asset for a species to have, and it has always seemed strange to him that humans, with all their intelligence and advanced evolutionary sequence, never developed them.

Spock pulls himself out of that section of Jim’s mind. Jim? he asks, deliberately projecting his thoughts loud enough to break through Jim’s shield. There is a moment where Spock catches a glimpse of what he’s thinking about - it’s warm and safe and comfortable, and for a moment it makes Spock’s veins burn. But it only lasts for a moment, and then Jim is back, slightly flustered and trying not to show it.

Yeah, Spock?

I have lowered your body temperature. If you are ready, I will attempt to withdraw from your mind.

There is a spike of disappointment from Jim’s side of the meld, but disappears quickly enough. Right. Of course. Do I need to - 

Interaction on your part is not required. Spock pauses, thinking, then adds, Though you may want to close your eyes. It can be... disconcerting, leaving a mind-meld. There’s a flash of memory from Jim - the sharp swirl of thoughts that are not his own, bursts of color played out across the back of his eyes, Spock’s elder counterpart’s lined face.

Gotcha, Jim says. I’m ready when you are.

Very well, then, Spock says, and then pulls his mind from Jim’s.

It’s abrupt - more so than any other mind meld Spock has experienced, and it’s unnatural. Not having their minds together, but having them apart; Spock has never experienced anything like it before. It feels almost like he is pulling at something tangible - not simply the connection between minds, the rope of thoughts and synapses. No, it feels like there is a physical link at the back of their minds, strong, steel, unmoving. He has to cover his feelings on the matter behind his mental shields.

Still: when he opens his eyes, he burns.

part iv - 

Four days after landing on Myata and two days after Spock and Jim mind-melded, the Enterprise has not returned, and Jim finds himself bored.

This is what he tells Spock, at least. “I want to go do something,” he tells Spock the second day, and he’s not quite whining but his voice almost drawls. “I’m going to go crazy, just sitting here all day.”   
Spock raises an eyebrow. “And what do you suggest we do?” he asks. He’s just returned from a water run - he has to make three of them a day, and they make his shoulders ache. He’d briefly considered moving their camp closer to the river, but there are no sand dunes to shield them from the wind, there, which would be fine in the short run, but in the long term would likely damage their tent and supplies.

Jim sighs. “I don’t know. I mean - maybe we should go investigate. The temple, or something. We’re not getting anywhere just sitting here.”

Logically, Spock knows Jim is right. Of course he's right. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, which means no action means no reaction, which means that they are doing nothing. They are stalling. They are waiting. They need to do something.

But there is something holding him back.

However deeply buried, however perpetually repressed - there is some feeling, deep in his chest, some instinct, that makes him want to wrap Jim in blankets, stuff him in the tent, and not let him go until they can get back on the Enterprise. Or until he lets Spock take him under - no, just until they get back onto the Enterprise.

Nothing else.

It’s strange, this protective feeling he has for Jim. It’s not quite unnatural, but it’s not natural, either - it walks the fine line between the conflicting ideas he’d been taught, from a very young age, about emotions.

His father and his teachers and every other Vulcan he interacted with told him that emotions were a weakness. They weren’t beneficial, they could control you, they could be used to weaken an otherwise strong mind. And Spock’s mind was strong - he tested into the top five percentile of all Vulcans for his psi-abilities, and his bond had been cemented long before he started secondary school. 

His mother was, of course, being human, of the opposite opinion. She never told Spock that outright, but he was smart enough and was skilled enough at the power of observation that he could infer the fact anyway. She was always wearing different expressions, never seemed to know when to hide them - and though Spock was aware that expression could sometimes be deemed useful, it was usually when conveying patronization or indifference, not deep emotions. But she displayed those on her face too - her happiness when Sarek returned from a diplomatic mission, her pride at Spock’s accomplishments in school, her anger and sadness at the discrimination she and her son faced, from adults and children alike.

Spock had often felt bad for his mother - not to say he thought she was inferior and deserving of his pity, but she never seemed to enjoy herself. Of course, Spock had to remind himself, joy is an illogical emotion. Instead of feeling sorry for her, he should remind her of that fact. He never did, though, and throughout his childhood, he carried the strangest sense of protectiveness for her. It was why, on their thirty-fifth attempt, Stonn and his acquaintances were finally able to elicit an emotional response from Spock.

After that incident, it did not take Spock long to learn to repress the feeling.

This however - this was different. The protective feeling Spock has had itching at his insides (which is illogical, since there is nothing physically itching at his internal organs; but it really does feel like it) since he has become aware of that it has been unresponsive to his attempts at meditation and repression; it’s rooted deeper in Spock’s subconscious than his pity for his mother, or the lessons he was taught as a child, right from the moment he was born. It is foreign to Spock, and it makes him, if not uneasy, then wary.

He does not trust easily, and he never trusts things he does not understand. And right now, that includes himself.

“I do not understand how this would be beneficial to us, Jim,” Spock says instead. “Trekking through the hot desert sands would no more improve our plight than remaining here.”

“I guess,” Jim says, looking downtrodden. “It’s just - I just feel sort of claustrophobic, you know? I mean, I guess you don’t know - but, yeah, not moving makes sense, I guess. I mean, how would we carry the water? Or the food, for that matter - yeah, you’re right.” And you are rambling, Spock thinks, but he does not say it aloud. “Hey, speaking of food - you going hunting today? I mean, I’d offer to go but - guess I’m an invalid.”

You are not an invalid, Spock thinks, but he just says, “Of course, Jim.”

-

Spock is so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost misses the sound of a twig, snapping underfoot; as it is, he barely manages to whip around fast enough to fire his phaser before the tree-rat slips behind a tree.

He hits it, of that he is sure - he hears it’s squeak of pain - but when he rounds the corner, it’s not there. In its place is the beginnings of a blood trail, and Spock surmises that he must have hit its paw.

For a moment, he weighs his options; in order to find the tree-rat, he'd have to follow it deeper into the forest, into an area he's never been before and one that's not within easy reach of the desert. This is, however, the first tree-rat that he's seen all day, and neither he nor Jim have had anything but a ration bar in over twenty four hours, since the first tree-rat Spock caught. It's improbable they're intelligent enough to have realized that he is a threat. Their newfound scarcity is far more likely just an unfortunate string of circumstance. Nevertheless, he hasn’t seen many, and Jim, if not Spock, requires sustenance. Spock follows the blood trail into the forest.

For an animal that is clearly critically injured, it can move fast. Spock follows its path for almost a quarter or a kilometer before he catches up to it, half-nestled in a small hollow created by the root of a tree. As Spock had predicted, its left hind leg has been severely injured by the phaser blast. At this point, it's death would almost be an act of mercy. 

Not that it matters. The animal’s feelings are illogical, and irrelevant to Spock’s reasons for killing it.

Spock retrieves the corpse, tying it onto his belt with a length of the grass he is building bowls with. He is turning to return to camp - and possibly harvest some more grass on the way back - when he hears it, from behind him. An unmistakably human sound, calm and assertive at the same time.

He should not have ventured this far into the forest.

There is another cough.

Slowly, he turns away from the desert, keeping one hand locked on his phaser, which - which is still set at minimum strength. Mentally, he curses himself for his oversight. 

Standing in the woods, half a dozen yards away and smirking, is the old man from the woods. He’s wearing the same robes as he had been before, wielding the same staff, etched with runes - Spock gives a hurried glance over the underbrush, but doesn’t see any reptiles. At least, not yet.

“Spock, Spock, Spock,” the man tuts, and something wrong, wrong, wrong, courses through Spock’s veins, instinctual. “Did you really think you could hide from me in my own home?”

Spock doesn’t know what to say, and isn’t sure he could speak if he wanted to. The air around him has become thick and heavy, weighted with water that it shouldn’t carry, in the middle of the desert. It is unnatural, Spock thinks, feels it in his bones but finds it logically, too. The world should not be like this.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t be able to get to you if we wanted to?” the man ask, taking a step forward. His tone is condescending, patronizing. “You’re sitting ducks; we know exactly where you are and if you continue to be stubborn about this we will come for you.” Every fiber of Spock’s being is telling him to run. 

Suddenly, there is a touch at the edge of his mind - sharp, brutal, coated in a sense of cloying saccharine sweetness - deadly. It is another mind, of that Spock has no doubt, but there is something fundamentally different about it, something fundamentally wrong; it is dark and shrouded in mystery, and it intrigues Spock while simultaneously making him feel sick to his stomach, apprehensive and angry and fearful, all at once.

His instincts are telling him to run.

He does.

Spock does not know what he expects, but it is not for the man to let him go. But that is what he does. He does not follow Spock, or order anything to give chase; Spock knows that, without looking back, because his laughter, as eerie and bone-shivering as it was the first time, is echoing from behind him, fading with every step Spock puts between them. “You cannot stay in the desert forever!” the man calls after him as Spock shoves between two palm trees. “Your body may be able to handle it, but your friend’s cannot - he will die quickly, in this heat, and there is no one coming to save you!”

Spock breaks through the fern fronds at the edge of the sand and continues running, breath coming thick in his throat, heart beating too fast. He should slow down, should start walking; they're safe now, in the desert, which makes this an unnecessary waste of energy. But then Spock recalls the sound of his laughter, the weight of wet air on his shoulders, and he keeps running.

Finally, their campsite comes into his sightline, and he can see Jim's boots sticking out from the tent, and he slows. The tree-rat is still hanging from his waist, though one of his legs is half-torn off from his running, and his phaser is still gripped tightly in his hand. Before he forgets again, he flips open its access panel and increases the power - such a ridiculous mistake for him to make, so foolish.

He takes a few moments to regulate his breathing, his heart rate, once again bringing his bodily functions under control. It is more difficult then he had anticipated - whenever he thinks his adrenaline rush has ended, he remembers the touch of the man's mind on his, and something about it feels so real that he has to open his eyes again, check the desert and their camp and Jim's boots, sticking out of the tent, to make sure he is not here.

After spending a few more unnecessary moments checking their supplies - illogically, a term he finds he has been applying to his actions too often lately, though he cannot seem to help it - he settles into the sand, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. Then he allows himself to retreat into, if not a meditative state, then a introspective one. He thinks on the man's words. He thinks on Jim's advice. He thinks on probabilities: that they will escape without help, that they will escape with help, that they will escape unharmed. He thinks on Jim.

After a while, Spock begins to wonder if he will have to wake him. Then there is a rustle from behind him, and Spock turns in time to see Jim emerge from the tent, his hair rumpled like like someone has just ceased running their fingers through it as Jim - no. Spock presses down the jealousy. Jim is not his. And his thoughts are illogical anyway.

Illogical.

“You’re back.” Spock believes it to be rhetorical, and either way it is a statement, and so he does not reply. “Sorry for falling asleep on you. I just - got sort of hot, and really tired.”

“It is no matter, Jim,” Spock says as Jim comes to rest beside him. The sun is setting behind the trees, painting the sky orange and pink. Now that Spock knows to look for it, he can see the glint of gold from the temple, peeking out from between the trees. “You need rest. Your body needs to recover.”   
“You’re the one who’s running around getting us food and water and saving my ass,” Jim says, but he doesn’t sound argumentative. He is merely stating fact.

So Spock does not point out that Vulcans require less sleep then humans, and nor does he point out they require less food. Instead, he changes the subject entirely. “I believe we should pack up our things and move.”   
Upon reflection, Spock had found it was true that they glean nothing from staying here; though he had accepted that when Jim first pointed it out. His recalcitrance had been at removing Jim from a safe situation and throwing him into a potentially dangerous one, but they are no longer safe, here. The man and the reptiles know where they are. They will come for them. Yes, they may be able to find them, even after they start moving, but the odds are much lower.

Logical.

“Oh, so you’ve come around now?” There is no real bite to Jim’s tone - just a hint of smugness and superiority. “What convinced you? Did you ruminate over the odds? Were they calculations involved? Let me guess - logic?”

“That was part of it, Captain,” Spock admits, and Jim smirks. It quickly fades when Spock adds, “But I was more compelled by the encounter I had in the woods today.”

“What do you mean, encounter? Was it - oh, shit, did you get attacked?” Jim’s voice is concerned, but also angry - though Spock knows his anger is not directed at Spock.

“Not - per say, Captain,” Spock says carefully. He is unsure of the proper way to describe the situation - it is not an attack, because the man did Spock no harm, but it was not a benign encounter, either. He threatened Spock. He threatened his - Spock shakes the thought from his head before he can complete it. 

“Did they hurt you?” Jim does not appear to be hearing what Spock is saying; his eyes move from Spock’s face to his body, raking up and down, examining him for any signs of an injury. “What happened?”

“I was not attacked, Jim. I was - retrieving my prey when the man appeared - the man with the ability to control the reptiles,” Spock says. Jim is listening closely, nodding, and they are in such close proximity Spock can feel a thin thread of Jim’s emotions, even through his shields: the sharp anger Jim is hiding behind concern. Spock as the irrational urge to reach out and touch him, reassure him. Illogical. Jim was not the one who was attacked. He continues. “He was alone, but he still commanded a commendable force - his mind touched mine, very briefly. It was - unnatural, unsafe, too powerful. I fled shortly thereafter, and he allowed me to.”   
“Why would he do that, then? Why would he let you go? Did he say anything to you?” Spock hesitates again, unsure on how to paraphrase in a way that will make it seem less threatening. “Spock.”

“He said - I believe the idiom he used was ‘sitting ducks’. He wished to convey the message that they knew our exact position and intended to ‘come for us’ soon. However, I do not know if he means they will attack us or intend to do other harm, but either way I believe it would be prudent -”

“- to move,” Jim finishes for him, “right.” He glances around at the campsite; they will be able to carry the majority of their supplies with them, if not the firewood or spare water. “But where are we gonna go? I mean, I know I suggested it, and we both know I’d love to be right, but - how are we gonna get water? In the middle of the desert?”

“I have indeed meditated over the idea and have found that our only feasible option, aside from staying here, would be to stay in close proximity to the oasis, possibly moving in a orbital pattern.”

Spock almost expects Jim to protest - there are many aspects of this that Spock has overlooked, he knows, many issues they will face that Spock has not mentioned, mainly because he does not have a solution for them. Instead, Jim just nods. “Alright, then,” he says. “I trust you. And you know I hate sitting still. As long as we’ve got water -” He glances over at Spock, almost like he is looking for reassurance, and Spock nods. “Then, yeah. Let’s do this.”   
Perhaps Spock should have expected the easy agreeance - James T. Kirk is an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and Spock will never decipher him, but he knows one thing: he never backs down from a challenge.

Even if it is potentially detrimental to his well-being.

Spock hopes this is not one of those times. They shall see.

-

Once again, Jim falls asleep in front of the campfire, and once again Spock carries him inside the tent, lays beside him, and stays there until he wakes up in the morning, long before Jim does. It has almost becomes habit, now - only five days of doing so and it already feels natural, and Spock suspects he will miss it when they get back onto the Enterprise.

If.

The next morning, when Jim wakes, they start to pack up camp. The sun is not yet risen, and so they briefly consider leaving under the cover of nightfall, but both find the prospect distasteful. Jim's reasoning: it's cowardly. Spock's: the reptiles will be able to find them either way.

Spock finds that neither reasons are particularly uplifting. 

It is also not particularly uplifting how short of a time period it takes to pack up their supplies; depressing, that’s what Jim says, and Spock tries to point out it’s convenience. Jim does not listen. In the end, all that they leave behind is a pile of ashes and a pile of wood - Spock had intended to leave their water bowl as well, but Jim takes it and places it, upturned, on his head.

“May I inquire as to why you are doing that?”

Jim shrugs, and, now that Spock is fully looking at him, he realizes he looks flushed. It may be embarrassment. The bowl does closely resemble the large, floppy hats human women wore four hundred years ago and still wear to the beach today. “Squinting makes my eyes hurt. And sometimes the sun makes me sneeze.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an allergy that I am unaware of?”

Jim snorts. “No, I think Bones made you memorize all of them. It’s just - a weird thing, I guess, that some humans do.” He shakes his head a little bit. “What Bones would do if he could see me now...”

The words are bittersweet, soured with a faint sense of longing. Jim clearly misses Doctor McCoy. Spock tries not to let this bother him, stomping down the protectiveness that rises in his chest. “It would be wise to leave as soon as possible. We will need to find an adequate camping ground before nightfall.”   
Jim looks grateful for the change in topic. “Right, sounds good.” He hefts the pack on his shoulder blades, lighter then the one Spock is carrying but just as large. “Left or right?”

Spock would like to say there is some logic behind his decision, some running of numbers and radiuses and kilometers added together; in truth, he picks one at random. They set off to the left.

-

Two hours later, Spock and Jim are still walking, still rounding the ever-present curve of the oasis, and Spock can tell Jim is getting tired.

Well - ‘getting’ is a little bit of an understatement. Jim started stumbling half an hour after they left the river, and aside from taking Jim’s bag (which Spock offered to do multiple times, and which Jim turned down multiple times), there is not much Spock can do. He has yet to find any stretches of desert that are even somewhat sheltered by the wind, nor has he found any streams, rivers, or other sources of water.

This patch of sand is not much better then the others - there are rocks littering most of the ground, and the closest sand dune is several kilometers back into the desert, not providing much protection from the wind. Still, Spock has noticed a fifty-nine point eight six one increase in the dampness of the moss covering the trunks of the palm trees. The odds are high that there is a source of fresh water within a kilometer, if not closer.

“I believe we can rest here, tonight,” Spock says, coming to a halt beside a fern frond. Jim looks ridiculously relieved at the break, but still he protests - probably for show more then anything else.

“But this doesn’t have any shelter,” he says, “or any water. Isn’t that what we were looking for?”

“I believe this is the closest thing we can reach, tonight,” Spock says, only a half-truth but not a full lie either. In truth, if they continue they probably could reach a location with at least one of the two tonight - but they could not do so without Jim becoming severely dehydrated or exhausted. Possibly both. 

“Are you sure?” Jim asks, sounding like he really hopes Spock will say no. Spock does not understand why humans do this - fake emotions they do not really feel, ask questions they already know the answers to. Both Spock and Jim know what Spock will say.

“Affirmative, Captain.” Spock plays along anyway. 

“Great.” With a relieved sigh, Jim lets his pack slide from his shoulders, pulling his makeshift hat off of his head. He slumps, relieved of the weight - but it only lasts a moment before he is straightening, swallowing hard and rearranging his features so they no longer reflect his still-obvious exhaustion and pain. “What do you need me to do?”

If this were anyone else, Spock might express his disbelief at their insolence, at their insistence of pushing themselves beyond their limits. But this is Jim, and so, while it is still a hard concept to grasp - such a lack of self preservation - he has long come to expect it. "I need you to rest," Spock says. Jim opens his moth to protest, but before he can, Spock adds, "It is illogical to endanger your health needlessly. And over-stressing yourself is indeed a needless endangerment."

“I’m really fine, Spock -”

“Don’t,” Spock says, tone low. He has dropped his own pack, and now that his hands are empty he finds he has the illogically human urge to grab Jim by his shoulders and shake him, to express his point. He clenches his fists and does not. “I would not allow another being to hurt you,” he says, and something in the back of his mind says no, no, of course not, I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you, I will rend them apart, limb by limb - “so why do you believe I would allow you to hurt yourself?”   
The silence that ensues is thick and meaningful - and, after a short while, becomes awkward. Spock does not know what he is supposed to do, so he waits until Jim finally clears his throat. “Well, alright then,” he says. “I’ll just - sit here.” Spock would think Jim is offended, if not for the slight curve of his lips, the faint hint of a smile.

Spock takes a few moments to organize their supplies and erect the tent on the only patch of sand that is not covered in rocks. It only takes him a few short minutes, but when he turns, Jim is laying on his back, eyes closed, and snoring.

When Jim wakes up, Spock will be sure to tell him ‘I told you so’. 

-

Spock carries Jim inside the tent as he slumbers; he has found he is a deep sleeper, and does not wake easily. Or at least he does not wake easily when he is exhausted - but then, who does?

He leaves the tent after tucking Jim under the blanket, intending to locate their water bottle and remaining food, and perhaps then wood for a fire; but the sun’s light is mostly blocked from this position, so close to the forest, and the only light that remains is dusty and barely enough to see by. He takes his bag from where it rests besides the tent and sits down with it, at the mouth, rummaging through it until he finds the water bottle. Jim will likely require most of it when he wakes up in the morning, so Spock only takes a single mouthful.

There is a click, like a shutter of a primitive camera from the twenty-first century.

Spock glances up. Less then five meters away, there is a pair of eyes staring out at him from the darkness. Large, shining - as Spock allows his eyes to adjust, he becomes aware of their reptilian shape, the form of the face they are connected to, the long body stretching back into the forest.

It is a fifteen-foot reptile.

Like the ones the old man controlled.

Spock does not move his gaze for several long moments. While it was enough to intimidate the one reptile, it doesn't work on this one, possibly because it did not witness him murder his comrade. The reptile just stares at him unblinking, and Spock realizes it's inner eyelids are closed. That must have been the source of the camera-like sound.

Briefly, he considers waking Jim - possibly to move their campsite location, possibly just to inform him of the threat. But they could not move. It was too late, past dark, and Jim was sleeping, and it was highly unlikely that they would be able to find a suitable location at which to pitch a tent within reasonable proximity. He also could not justify waking Jim just to tell him about the reptile. Jim would likely be concerned for their safeties and either insist they move or insist he help Spock keep watch, so Spock could get some sleep. 

He stays outside the tent for a while, and he honestly has no estimations or references for how long it may be. He doesn't look away from the forest, from the reptile's glowing eyes. Even after he does the calculations, and finds the odds that the reptile will move highly improbable (two point seven three seven percent, in fact) Spock is unwilling to retreat to the tent. Then he hears a shudder from inside the tent - hears, rather then sees or feels, because he is not close to Jim like he should be, not providing the warmth Jim's body lacks. It is his job to do, and he is not doing it.

He stares at the reptile for a moment longer before he pushes aside the tent flap and moves inside. Jim is shaking freely under the emergency blanket, without Spock's body heat. Spock lays down beside him, as he has done for the past several nights, curving his body around Jim's. It feels personal and intimate, and he knows Jim would see it as such. That is why Spock has yet to tell him. And maybe that is an invasion of privacy, maybe that is wrong - but Spock cannot bring himself to. There is no harm in it, either way - it is necessary for Jim's survival, nothing more. That is Spock's only incentive, and so he cannot see it as taking advantage of Jim. He has done nothing untoward, anyway.

Even so: as Spock lies there, feeling the ridges of Jim’s spine pressing up against his chest and not allowing himself to drift off, not even allowing himself to come close - he cannot help but feel guilty.

\- part v - 

Spock wakes shortly before dawn the next morning and has two startling realizations: one, that he fell asleep, when there was a threat waiting outside to attack them, when he was pressed up against Jim’s back; and two, Jim is awake.

Spock jolts upwards immediately, moving as far away from Jim’s body as possible. He waits for Jim to say something - an expression of anger, perhaps, or betrayal that Spock would withhold information - but he does not. It takes Spock a moment to recognizing the murmur of his breath to be, in fact, words - strings of gibberish, nonsensical things lacking logical connections, but words. Jim is not yet fully awake.

Spock’s heartbeat slows for a moment. Jim is not yet aware of Spock’s presence beside him each night; his trust in Spock has yet to be tarnished. Spock tries not to focus on the ‘yet’ in his statements.

And then he wonders why, if Jim is not awake, he is acting in such a manner. Brow furrowed, Spock leans over, pressing down on Jim’s shoulder and turning him so he is laying flat on his back. When he draws his hand away, it is soaked with sweat; Jim is burning up. 

Frowning fully, now, Spock lays a hand on the side of Jim's neck. His temperature has once again risen about thirty-eight degrees centigrade, and he is body is once again suffering the consequences. Spock considers giving Jim water - but, no, he cannot do so. No now. What little water they have is precious and Jim will require it when he wakes. Spock glances outside the tent; it is only two hours until sunrise. Spock may be able to - he glances at the woods, and is unsurprised to find glowing eyes staring back at him. The reptile is still there.

He cannot go get more water for Jim. He cannot give any of their existing water to Jim. He cannot do anything for him.

He pulls the remaining blankets off of himself and off of Jim, folding them into the corner of the tent. He is reluctant to leave Jim here - he has the irrational urge to hold Jim close until he wakes, until Spock is capable of protecting him further. Itching flames crawl beneath his skin.

He sits outside the tent, and he tries to think.

He leaves the flap open, so he can see Jim from where he's sitting. He measures the beats of his heart per minute, the frequency and depth of his breathing. Irregular but unchanging, irregular but unchanging - and Spock supposes he will have to take comfort from that, for now. He does not know what else he can do. He cannot lower Jim's temperature, at least not without the possibility of inflicting damage from the frequent melds. Nor can he allow him to continue their journey in this state. Nor can they stay here.

When Jim’s respiratory rate finally begins to accelerate, it is as the sun begins to peek out from behind the tops of the trees; mid-morning. The reptile had disappeared with the rising sun, hissed at Spock - who had not responded, not so much as flinched - before retreating back into the trees.

The suddenly jaggedness of Jim’s breaths is what draws Spock into the tent initially; only a moment later, his heartbeat also speeds up, and then suddenly his eyes open and he jolts upward, gasping.

“Spock -” he gasp, and then he’s pushing past Spock out of the tent, one foot tangled where it had caught the corner of the blanket. He barely makes it outside before he vomits.

It does not last long; Jim is severely malnourished and dehydrated, and he doesn’t have much in his stomach. Mainly, he vomits up bile. The stench is strong and repugnant, and it makes Spock’s own stomach turn. He does not take notice.

After only a moment's hesitation, Spock reaches out and lays a hand on Jim's shoulder as he heaves. His own mother had rubbed his back when he was sick - an oddly soothing gesture, even if it had no logical medical properties. He would do the same for Jim but it seems - intimate. Too much so for friends such as them. Perhaps it would be appropriate for Doctor McCoy, but Doctor McCoy is not here - and even if he was, he'd likely administer a cure to Jim, or a hypospray to relieve his symptoms.

He turns his attention back to Jim, whose shoulder has stilled under his hand. “Do you require nourishment?”

Jim shudders at that, shakes his head. “No, I -” His voice rasps, and he closes his mouth, swallows hard. “Can I have some water?”

“Of course,” Spock says, lifting his hand so he can turn and retrieve the water bottle from where it sits, outside the tent. The water inside of it is warm, but will have to suffice; he uncaps it. 

“Here.” He attempts to pass the bottle to Jim, but when he reaches for it, his hands are shaking horribly - he tries to grab it and some splashes out from the top. They cannot afford to waste any water.  
 “Can you - can you just -” Jim does not finish his sentence, but he does not have to. Carefully, Spock raises the water bottle, and with his other hand, cups Jim’s chin. He pours the water into Jim’s mouth slowly, holding it steady in place, and Jim gulps greedily. He finishes the bottle quickly. “Thanks.”

“I will need to lower your temperature again.”

Despite his obvious injury and weakened state, Jim still looks reluctant to do so. Is there something repulsive about Spock’s mind, something that makes him so unwilling to meld with him? Spock finds he does not want to consider it. “Can’t - isn’t that dangerous?”

Spock inclines his head slightly. “It can be - frequent exposure to mind-melds in humans has not been studied properly, and I do not have a frame of reference on which to base our situation.”

“Then -” Jim shakes his head, closing his eyes. “What are you going to do? I don’t get it.”

“It is not safe for me to meld with you,” Spock says, “but it would be possible for me to form a mental link.”

A beat of silence. Jim has not opened his eyes to look at Spock, yet; his head his tilted back towards the sky, the faint dredges of purple streaked across blue, and Spock finds himself distracted by it. He has lost weight since they have landed on Myata - so has Spock - and the tendons in his neck are more obvious then usual, like his cheeks are more gaunt. The hollow of his throat is pronounced and wet with sweat; his skin is flushed red.

But Spock wants him - more then he ever has before.

“Okay.”

Jim’s voice breaks Spock out of his reverie, and he almost startles slightly, surprised. “You - you do not require any further information? You do not even wish to inquiry on it’s permanence?”

Jim shrugs a little, a slight hitch in his shoulders. He’s opened his eyes and is looking back at Spock instead of the cloudless sky. “I trust you,” he says, and his voice is raspy and broken, and for the first time Spock considers the fact that Jim’s judgement may be impaired - Spock has never known Jim to commit to something with so little facts, without any arguing whatsoever.

And so Spock asks again. “Are you sure, Jim?” he asks, and Jim exhales. “I only mean to ensure your judgement has not been compromised.”

“Hell, Spock, my judgement is definitely compromised,” Jim says, and he sounds tired now. “I’m tired and my head hurts and I feel like I’m going to be sick and it’s too warm and I’m a horrible sick person in the best of circumstances and I just -” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “My judgement is compromised,” he says, “but it’s still my judgement.” He meets Spock’s eyes. “Do it.”

So Spock initiates a mind-meld.

First, he has Jim lay down in the shade of the tent. Jim says it's stuffy, and that he likes it better outside, but Spock knows this could take over an hour, and that long exposure to the sun could burn Jim's skin. Spock follows him into the tent, kneeling beside his body - he is tense, anxiety rolling off of him in waves, almost palpable. Spock considers reaffirming his willingness to link their minds, but Jim's pallor is so sickly and his face is so flushed that Spock decides they need to meld as soon as possible.

“Are you ready?” he asks instead, and Jim opens his mouth to respond, the seems to think better of it, and snaps his mouth shut. He nods instead. “Close your eyes,” Spock instructs him, and they only flicker briefly before he does so. “My mind to your mind. My thoughts -”

to your thoughts.

Spock is more familiar with Jim’s mind now, and so the sensation is not as off-putting as he had found it before. It is, though, still fascinating. The colors of his thoughts, the connections of his circuity, the way emotions run wild - Spock doubts there will ever be a day that he will be able to experience Jim’s mind and not experience wonder, and he does not think this is a bad thing.

It takes him a surprisingly short amount of time to worm his way into Jim’s central control center, mainly because Jim’s mind is more welcoming then it was, before. Spock is more of a familiar force, now - to both Jim’s conscious and subconscious - and it assists him rather then fighting him. He lowers Jim’s temperature quickly, and he feels the tension that drains out of Jim’s muscles when he does so. Even his facial muscles seem to relax. 

His next moves are careful, and more calculated. Never before has he initiated a mind-link such as this, at least not one with a human and without an experienced professor looking on and monitoring his process. It is not that Spock’s mind is unwilling to have Jim in it - far from it. It’s almost straining towards Jim, eager and excited to connect to him, and it is that that makes Spock cautious. Many a great man has made a mistake when they are overexcited; Spock will not allow himself to do the same.

Spock does his best to follow his teacher’s instructions, even though they do not apply fully. Humans do not have places in their minds for bonds and links, not like Vulcans do, and so Spock will have to create one. He repeats the first line of Vulcan cautiously, both with his mind and aloud, and is surprised when it seems to steer him towards a certain section of Jim’s mind. He says the next line - and yes, it’s prodding him forward, pushing him towards something he needs to see. He follows it.

The bond is he creating is not a true kah-ka, not a bond between mates, and if Jim were Vulcan Spock would be comfortable performing it. However, Jim is not Vulcan - and that difference alone turns an attentive and difficult progress rigorous and demanding. Only halfway through the words of the ceremony, Spock is beginning to feel a hint of fatigue, and he knows he will need to rest as soon as he withdraws from the meld - unfortunate, as Jim will not have any water until Spock locates some for him.

It is too late to back up now.

Spock?

Jim’s voice is almost tentative, though it is stronger then it was before he initiated the mind-meld - there is string of feeling from Jim, likely unintentional, that describes his increase in strength. Indeed, he seems to be feeling much better already - hungry, and somewhat parched, but cooler. His mind likens it to the sensation of jumping into a cool pool on a hot summer’s day; it also likens it to the sensation he felt several days ago, when Spock first entered his mind.

Am I - are these your emotions? Is that what I’m feeling?   
Dimly - and only dimly, because Spock is concentrated on his task - he realizes Jim must be able to read his mind, just like Spock can read Jim’s. It makes him feel decidedly vulnerable, not having his shields up, and it occurs to him that this may be why Jim was reluctant to initiate a meld. 

Yeah, but it’s - not that bad, I guess. Just weird.

Spock has to restrain himself from answering, refocusing on the task at hand before he can forget his location in the readings. He recites another string of Vulcan, slowly, so he can be more careful with his pronunciation. He movement has slowed, now, to the degree that he has almost stopped moving entirely. He’s also become aware of a faint presence - it’s not he or Jim, or a mind at all. It’s the beginning tethers of what will link them together.

I didn’t know you felt this much, Jim says, and it’s equally threaded with humor and awe. His mental voice is even stronger, now. He seems to be improving progressively. I mean, I know Ambassador Spock did, but he was around humans more. You’re - god, Spock, how do you manage to hold all of your emotions in like this?

Spock feels a twinge at the back of his mind, an emotion that may or may not be his, but he does not pay any attention to it. The ceremony is almost complete. Spock has sped up again, i sounding the last hallway of Jim's mind, the one he knows will lead him to its heart. He recites another line of.

You're - God, Spock, your whole planet - 

Spock does not want to have this conversation, whole or otherwise. But he cannot shield his mind, cannot divert Jim from this topic until he has completed the meld. He utters another long string of Vulcan words, difficult syllables to pronounce, and complicated, and he has to move painstakingly slow.

I felt part of it in the other Spock's mind, but - god, your mother - 

And Spock cannot help the rush of emotions as they surge through his chest, the remembered love and affection, now tainted by her death; the half-filled link in his mind, the one reserved for parental units. It's paralleled by Jim's own pain, the memories of his mother and how she did not die, but how she looked at him like he had, and how she'd shipped him away to a foreign planet, how she hadn't visited him in the hospital even after he was nothing but a skeleton, skin painted on his bones -

The pain is almost too much for Spock to bear. He is Vulcan: the emotions he had felt at his own loss had been unbearable, and now the burden, however mutually shouldered, had increased - 

He stumbles through the last line of Vulcan, trying to get the words right. They're masked in a haze of food and emotion, pouring thick and colorful from Jim's mind into his own. Halfway through, there is a strange shift - like the universe has changed, like the meaning of the world has suddenly revealed itself. Spock thinks maybe it's in the heat of his blood, like he is the one with the fever. But maybe it's the skin of Jim's hands, his heart and the way you can't see his ribs anymore, but you might be able to soon - and Spock just cannot handle it. he forces the last slurred Vulcan words out of his lips, feels the click of their minds rushing together, jagged edges fitting like they were made for each other; it's so right it feels wrong.

Jim I cannot - 

Spock? Jim’s voice is confused, but Spock is exhausted and is overrun with emotion and his shields have been become something of the past and he is no longer capable of functioning normally -

I must end the meld immediately. Our minds are linked.

Yeah, sure, whatever you need - 

Spock pulls himself back into his own body, eyes flicking open as he gasps. 

you’ve got it.

For a moment it is disconcerting - the link seems to fill a hole at the back of Spock’s mind that he hadn’t know was there but was wanting filled all the same. From beneath him, Jim groans - and yes, Jim is beneath him, because at some point Spock must have moved from Jim’s side to straddle him. He’s bent over, with his forehead pressed to Jim’s. He carefully removes himself, pointedly not looking at Jim - it will only amplify the feelings Spock had intercepted during the meld, the abandonment and loneliness and pain - Spock begins to regulate his breathing, attempt to regain control of his heart rate.

Oh, that’s weird.

For a moment, Spock does not know whether or not Jim has spoken aloud - as familiar as other’s thoughts are to Spock’s mind, he has become accustomed to shielding himself at all times, both on the Enterprise and off of it. He has not touched a human mind since before his mother died. 

That’s seriously fucking weird, Jim thinks, and his tone is not one of hysteria but there is an edge to it, almost. That is what makes Spock turn around; he is a member of a telepathic species, and has experience with these mind melds, and if it is disconcerting for him, it must be even more so for Jim. 

Jim is sitting up, shutting and reopening his eyes, as though adjusting from pitch-darkness to bright light. Spock supposes he must be, moving from Spock’s shadow to the sun’s angry glare. Which is hanging in the middle of the sky; it’s noon, now. 

Spock? Jim sounds almost frightened; Spock feels a stab of guilt at retracting from the meld so quickly. But he was so unprepared for the strength of Jim’s emotions full-force, how strong they are without any suppression from his part that might hold them back - Spock cuts off his own train of thought. His reason is coming back to him, now that the horrible feelings are starting to fade from his chest. He cannot make excuses. He should not have melded them as suddenly as he did. Nor should he have placed Jim in such an abrupt, acute situation. 

“I apologize, Jim,” Spock says, and he says it aloud, because he knows this must be incredibly overwhelming for Jim, this sudden addition of another mind to his. He cannot imagine how difficult it must be for his brain to quantify. 

It’s okay, Spock, Jim thinks, and the trust in his voice seems to strengthen Spock’s flames of protectiveness, makes them flare - and broadcasts them to him, through their mental link. Wait, Jim thinks, is that Spock? Fire. Why does feel like he’s on -

“I apologize,” Spock stays stiffly, and aloud, again, but for different reasons: already he’s beginning to erect mental shields between them, block off the bond from both of their minds on either side. They are weak, and they will remain so until he has sufficient time to meditate and strengthen them, but they are necessary. Jim cannot feel what Spock is feeling - it is too powerful for him. The thought is ironic, after the wave of emotion Spock just experienced. Nevertheless, it is true, and it is alienating for Spock.

“Spock?” Jim is finally speaking aloud and he sounds confused - Spock cannot blame him, and he feels a wave of self-hatred at himself for doing this to Jim, for forming a link and darting out of it suddenly and then blocking it off, everything abrupt, no time for Jim to adjust. But he cannot afford it. “What are you doing?”

“I am shielding our minds,” Spock says, cementing another layer of protection around the link, another wall they cannot breach. He leaves it just open enough that he can access the faint thread of Jim’s mind, so that he can keep Jim’s temperature down. He blocks all emotion and thought, albeit with temporary walls. “This way, we cannot see anything the other does not intend for us to.”

Spock does not feel a reaction from Jim through the link. There is an expression dawning on his face, though - Spock cannot decipher it, but it’s there, and so Spock ceases his work on the shields, satisfied this is the highest quality he can achieve without proper meditation. “Right,” Jim says, and his tone is so dull Spock cannot read any emotions in it or on his face. “Of course.”

“It is obviously possible to retract these shields if we desired to do so,” Spock says, and finds he is attempting to reassure, Jim - though he doesn’t understand why Jim would need reassuring. He attempts to reason with himself. If Jim did not desire to meld their minds in the first place - and because of the lack of privacy, for that matter - why would he care if Spock blocked it off? If anything, he should be grateful. Perhaps it is the suddenness of it - maybe that’s what’s making him so indecisive. “However, you can rest assured I will not read your mind without your explicit permission. Your privacy will remain intact.”

“Right,” Jim says again. Spock still cannot read his expression. He pushes himself up into a sitting position. 

“Was this not what you desired, Jim?” Spock asks. It’s necessary, of course, and so Jim’s emotions on the matter should not have an relevance. However, there is a part of Spock, however remote, that wishes to give Jim whatever he desires, no matter what the consequences may be. Which is, of course, illogical. 

“No, you’re right,” Jim says, but he is not making eye contact with Spock, or looking at him at all. He pushes himself into a standing position. Spock does not follow him. The exhaustion he had felt so acutely during the meld, and which had faded briefly when he came back to his body, has flared again. He feels the urgent need to meditate or rest, or he may fall asleep where he sits. “I guess I should - look, would it be okay if I just, like, take a minute for myself?”   
“Of course not,” Spock says. “It is logical for you to wish for isolation after such an ordeal.” He does not ask that Jim return as soon as possible; perhaps he should, but he feels the Jim’s mental well-being is more important - and, besides, he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding patronizing.

“Cool,” Jim says, and he sounds somewhat awkward. “I’m just gonna -” He jerks his thumb away from the tent, away from the oasis, to the left of where Spock’s sitting, out into the rolling sand dunes. Spock nods. Jim hovers for a moment longer before he turns, and then his steps are hurried as he walks away. He looks as though he has somewhere to be, like he is in the hallways of the Enterprise, headed to the Bridge during red alert. He doesn’t look like he’s making his way to isolation - an emotion he’d felt sharply and too often throughout his meagre childhood, Spock now knows - in the middle of a vast, empty, desert.

Spock watches him go.

\- part vi - 

Six days later, setting up camp has become almost routine.

Not quite; apparently, as Jim tells Spock, it takes three weeks to make a habit. So it’ll be another seven days before Spock gets up in the morning and automatically checks the firewood; before it becomes second nature to wake up slowly and leave his bed before the sun or Jim have risen; and it’ll be double that before Spock stops startling every time he feels Jim’s emotions through their link.

It is strange for Spock - he can only image how disconcerting it has to be for Jim.

To his credit, Jim has not show any signs of distress, but he’s stopped looking at Spock as often, and at night, instead of sitting beside Spock at the fire, he sits across from him, as far away as he can get and still feel the heat of the flame. Spock does not think Jim is angry at him - no, he would feel that through their link. But he does think Jim is having a harder time adjusting then he is letting on, and he is, however consciously or subconsciously, attempting to put distance between himself and Spock.

They haven't traveled as far as Spock would have liked; the oasis is so large that it would take at least a week to walk around it, and that's if they could move nonstop. As it is, Jim's too weak to engage in any type of physical activity for more then an hour at a time, no matter what he tells Spock. And they're heavily reliant on finding water int eh jungle - some nights, they will find a fresh spring only inches inside the foliage. Otherwise, there will be reptiles waiting for them as they pitch camp, and they will be unable to find both water and food. They've only managed to make it ninety degrees around the circle, and they've gleaned no further information on the man, the reptiles, or the temple.

Spock is frustrated.

“How long do you think we’ll have to walk today?”   
Spock glances up at the sky, trying to gauge the distance of the sun from the horizon. He’s already disassembled and stowed away their tent, as well their leftover food. “Approximately five hours, Captain,” he says, “barring any unforeseen weather anomalies or violent altercations.”

“Awesome,” Jim says, instead of pointing out - as he had helpfully done the last two days - the unnecessariness of that piece of information. He hefts his bag on his shoulders. It’s light, Spock knows, but for human’s the shape and positioning of the straps can make carrying it cumbersome. “Ready to go?”

Spock places their water bottle into his pack's side pouch and lifts it onto his shoulders, straightening. "As I believe humans sometimes say: whenever you are." The corner of Jim’s lips twitch at Spock's words. Spock has found that his use of human idioms seems to irrationally delight Jim. 

“Where’d you hear that one, Spock?” Jim asks as they start to pick their way down the side of the hill - picking because of the stones and branches scattered across the sand. Spock has found this area of the desert has an abnormal amount of stones and rocks - some of them are even fossilized. 

“Doctor McCoy seems fond of using the phrase,” Spock says, and then adds, dryly, “usually accompanied with an illogical endearment such as ‘green-blooded hobgoblin.” The statement is nut entirely false, but in fact, Spock had first heard the phrase when he was a child; his mother had used it, along with many other human idioms Spock had picked up. Of course, when he was admitted into first year school, the illogical phrases had been purged from his vocabulary.

Jim looks over at Spock, raising an eyebrow. A hint of his earlier smile remains on his face. “You think that’s Bones’ nickname for you? Green-blooded hobgoblin?”   
Spock tilts his head. “He also calls me ‘pointy-eared bastard’. After reviewing the frequency with which he uses the words, and the inflection that usually accompanies them, I can only assume he means them affectionately,” Spock says. “I believe it is similar to a grown man calling a grown woman a ‘baby’. Clearly, neither of them are infants.”

Jim’s grin is wide now, and he’s flashing his teeth. “You think - oh, God - you think Bones calling you a bastard is the same thing as a guy calling his girlfriend baby? It’s not - that’s meant more then affectionately, Spock, that’s meant romantically.”

Spock considers this. “Perhaps my comparison was not as apt as it could have been,” he allows. Jim shakes his head a little, still grinning, and looks forward again. “However, I maintain that there is no real maliciousness to Doctor McCoy’s - nicknames, as you called them.”

“Well, I know that,” Jim says, weaving around a long, cactus-like planet lying dead and half-buried in the sand. “But shouldn’t you know that ‘baby’ is romantic? Doesn’t Uhura call you that?”   
“Negative, Captain,” Spock says. “Even when we were pursuing a relationship, neither of us were fond of pet names.”   
“Wait,” Jm says, and actually stops short. They are a few feet from the edge of the forest, the line they will follow down the trees until they reach the bubbling spring Spock had located the night before. “Was that past tense? Aren’t you two still -” He makes an indecipherable gesture with his hands.   
“If you mean to ask if I am still in an intimate relationship with Lieutenant Uhura, then the answer is negative, Captain,” Spock says, and watches the emotions that flicker across Jim’s face - there’s surprise, and confusion, and another emotion that flickers across his face too fast for Spock to understand it. After that there’s a hint of guilt. “We terminated our relationship six point seven eight months ago, on the basis of lacking emotional support and Lieutenant Uhura’s newfound attraction to Mister Scott.”

“Wait, so you - wait, Scotty? I’m so -” Jim does not seem capable of forming cohesive sentences any time in the foreseeable future, so Spock takes a step forward. It would be illogical to stand around while waiting for Jim to get his thoughts under control. “Spock! You can’t just dump all that on me at once!” But he follows him; Spock hears the thud of his shoes on the sand.

“I do not understand what is so incomprehensible for you, Captain,” Spock says.

“Okay, first of all: we’re talking about your love life, you can at least call me Jim.”   
“Very well, Jim.”   
“And secondly,” Jim continues as if Spock had not spoken, “I don’t get why you didn’t tell me you broke up with Uhura. I mean, like, the fact it happened aside - I’m supposed to be your best friend, Spock, you’re supposed to talk to me about this stuff. Like the fact that she’s into Scotty, which - I mean, that’s pretty weird, don’t you think? Or maybe not. I don’t know. You can’t blame me for being surprised by that, I bet you were.”

“Negative, Ca - Jim,” Spock says, catching his mistake. “I often keenly observed Lieutenant Uhura, and I believe I was as aware of her growing affections as she was, at the time.”

“Are they, like, together now, then?” Jim wonders aloud. “How did I not notice that? I mean, I - okay, you got me distracted, this isn’t what I care about. What I want to know is why you didn’t come talk to me.”

Spock inclines his head. “I did not know it was relevant, Jim,” he says, “nor did I think you would particularly interested in the developments. You were not a part of my relationship with Lieutenant Uhura, and as such I did not think to include you in it’s ending.”   
“That’s not -” Jim almost sighs. “That’s what I mean, Spock, and you know it. I know it’s not any of my business, but - well, your emotional well-being sort of is, isn’t it?”

“As my Captain, I fail to see how -”   
“As your friend, Spock,” Jim interrupts him, glancing at him meaningfully. “As your best friend, I care about you. Whenever you’re hurting - you should know you can talk to me, whenever something happens.”   
Spock hesitates for a moment, feeling he should point out the incongruities in Jim’s statement, the wrongness in his assumption that Vulcans feel hurt and that they find release in speaking of it. “I am aware of that, Jim,” he finally responds.

“Good,” Jim says, sounding satisfied. “Because I really don’t get how I didn’t notice Scotty and Uhura I mean - unfh!” Jim was not looking at the ground as he spoke, but that did not mean there were not sufficient objects to trip over; his foot hits the snag of a tree root and he goes stumbling to the ground. 

Spock reaches out to catch him, but his pack slows his movements, and he is not fast enough. Jim, however, is - he catches himself on the heels of his hands, feet dragging in the dirt behind him. “Well, shit,” he says a second after he falls, in the moment of strung silence; the sound is muffled by the ground, but he seems unharmed. “I guess Bones was right; I really should be a ballet dancer.” He grunts and goes to push himself up - then pauses, a curious expression on his face. “What...”   
Jim gets his legs under him so that he's situated in a crouch instead of a push-up position. Then he pushes himself forward, into the underbrush of the ferns in front of him, the leaves he had rustled when he fell forward. Jim's gaze is locked on something on the ground. Spock cannot tell what it is, from this angle, and so, after scanning the forest warily, he crouches beside Jim.

“What have you discovered?”

“It’s -” Jim’s shoulders are still blocking most of Spock’s view. “A shape? I don’t know, it’s, like, scratched into the dirt or something -” He glances back over his shoulders at Spock, and then, realizing Spock can’t see anything, shifts to his left to reveal a patch of dirt. For a second, Spock does not see the shape - it is faded and indistinct, and patches of it are covered in leaves and moss. Spock reaches forward, brushing them aside, to reveal the entire formation; it only takes him a moment to realize it is a rune.

“It appears to be an alphabetical figure similar to those etched into the man’s walking stick,” Spock says. Normally, Spock would be able to infer the meaning of the character from it’s radicals, but with absolutely no prior knowledge to their language system, he cannot even theorize. “Perhaps we should document it.”

“With what?” Jim asks absently as he rubs his fingers over the dirt. It displaces the soil around the rune, but the character itself stays intact. “It’s not like we have our tricorders, and what are our phasers going to do?”   
“We could replicate the image through drawing,” Spock says, but even as he says it, he dismisses the idea. Jim does not respond anyway, and so Spock pushes himself back into a standing position, glancing around them at the trees. Jim remains crouched in the underbrush, rubbing his fingers over the lines of writing.

“It’s weird - even if this was pressed into the dirt, the shape should be disappearing by now, but it’s - it’s just getting shinier.” He remains a second longer, then sighs, moving to push himself up. “I guess - hey, what was that?”   
Before Spock can advise him against any rash movements, he’s reaching past the ferns into the root system of a tree. When he withdraws his arm, it is unharmed, but he’s holding something. He stands up, brushing the dirt off the object in question. “Do you have any water we could use to clean it?” he asks. 

“It would not be wise to waste our water supply -”

“We’re going to a spring anyway,” Jim points out. “Come on, just a little?”   
Spock pulls the water bottle from the side pouch of his pack, unscrewing it and pouring it over the top of the object. The remaining grime runs off of it quickly, leaving a gleaming exterior. It's metal. The more water Spock pours over it, the more of the object it reveals, until it is shining in the sunlight. Spock caps the water bottle and returns it to his pack and Jim turns the object over in his hands, holding it up to the sunlight. It has jagged edges, and it is shaped like the corner of a box - a hollowed triangular prism. Spock notices something on its face, and he reaches out to take it from Jim. Their fingers brush, briefly. Even the slight contact makes the ball of emotions in his chest unfurl, bright and colorful and almost overcoming his mind, and he pulls back quickly, struggling to regain control.

“May I?” he asks instead, holding out a hand, and Jim looks a little confused but he still nods and hands it over. Spock turns it to a right angle, and yes, there it is: the insignia, half-gone but still etched clearly into the metal face of what Spock assumes was a box.

“Look here,” he says, pointing at the shape. Jim’s facial expressions flicker - curiosity, confusion, disbelief. 

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”   
“I would not presume to know what you are thinking, Captain,” Spock says, and it makes Jim roll his eyes slightly, if not laugh or smile. “But if you believe it to be the emblem of the Myatan government, you would be correct.”   
Jim sighs. “Great,” he says. “This is just what we needed.”   
Spock thinks he agrees with the sentiment, if not the wording.

-

“So this is what we know,” Jim begins again, and Spock resists the urge to sigh.

After finding the metal piece in the forest, they had continued walking - they both agreed there was no sense to delay their journey, especially considering the limited hours they were capable of walking, in the morning before the sun rose fully, and in the afternoon, after dusk but before dark. It did not, however, mean that Jim did not want to discuss the artifact - far from it, he had barely ceased speaking all day. Even when Spock went hunting, at midday, he attempted to accompany him. Spock had to eventually send him back to the edge of the forest to wait, because while he considered the volume of his whispers to be low, it was scaring away prey and likely alerting predators to their presence. Even when they finally stopped and set up camp, Jim had barely stopped talking long enough to assist Spock with locating firewood. 

“Gandalf can control the reptiles,” he says, and Spock has to hold back an eye roll, now. Jim had decided to call the old man Gandalf when, after half a day of repeating the same information, decided saying ‘the old dude’ required too much effort on his part. Instead, he decided to reference a twentieth century book that Spock had never read - he understands it was of the genre fantasy. He never saw much use in reading fictional narratives. “The reptiles can’t leave the forest, and so Gandalf probably can’t either. Somewhere they’ve got tech that’s blocking our communications to the Enterprise. They’ve got a weird temple thingie-majig, too, which is probably something religious, and they’ve got runes scratched on Gandalf’s cane and around the forest. Plus they’re likely working with the Myatan government, considering what they told you when we landed and this.” He gestures towards the metal box, even though he does not need to - Spock knows what he is speaking of already. “And they have psi-abilities that don’t require touch.”

Spock does not say anything; at first, he had agreed with Jim, but after Jim repeated himself two or three times, Spock had realized Jim did not require confirmation. He simply said things aloud so he could organize his thoughts. “This is so frustrating,” Jim says now. “It’s like a puzzle, and I’ve got the edges put together, but I’m missing the middle and I don’t have the picture on the box anymore to tell me what to do.”

“An apt comparison,” Spock says. “Perhaps the answer lies in continued exploration. That is, after all, how we discovered the runes.”

“That wasn’t exploration, Spock, that was me being clumsy,” Jim says. “And besides, we both know that it’s hard to explore. That’s why we left the campsite, right? But we can’t do anything - I mean, we could check the desert all we wanted, but what are we going to find out there? More sand? What we need to do is go check out that temple, but we obviously can’t do that, at least not with the lizard things still hanging around.”

Spock opens his mouth to answer, but before he can say anything, his mind is suddenly hit with another’s.

It is not Jim; Spock can tell that immediately. Even if Jim were capable of doing something like this, his mind is as different from this man’s as water from fire, ash from fresh new life. It is raging and black, congealed ink pressed into a multi-headed beast; dozens of thoughts flicker into one, all dark and dangerous, and together it makes Spock’s head ache.

S-po-ck, the voice in his head hisses, accentuating the vowel, the slide of the ‘s’. A wave of images and emotions accompany his voice - anger, agitation, and buried underneath it, pain. We have grown impatient. Something stabs at his mind at the last syllable, almost as if it’s intended for emphasis - it’s a stab at his mental shields, and it hurts as much as a phaser shot.

You cannot stay in the desert forever, the voice says - or voices, Spock thinks. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks it’s multiple people; it would certainly make sense, considering the will-power and mental strength required to affect Spock’s shields like this, especially from a distance. He focuses on the voices. They are layered on top of each other, so well synchronized you can barely see the separation, but there. And you cannot hide from us, either. You know this. We have reminded you of this. And yet you play like you can.

There is another jab at his shields; he can feel them weakening, even as he struggles to keep them upright. They cannot break him; if they find the link, they could force their way into Jim’s mind, and while Spock is trained to protect himself against such attacks, Jim is not. Of course, the entire train of thought is illogical; if they can access his mind this easily, without contact or even close proximity, why can’t they access Jim’s? Still, there is a chance they are only sensitive to other psi-capable minds, and so he uses it as his reasoning to zealously defend his walls.

We have contacted the Myatan government. We expressed our displeasure on the quality of our tributes this year. How standards have fallen... There’s a faint sigh at that, unanimous and heavy with breath, and two more jabs at his shields, quick in succession. He does not know how much longer he is capable of defending himself. From the physical world, he hears a faint call - is that his name? Before he has time to dwell on it, the voices are speaking again. They said if you do not turn yourself in soon, they’ll beam someone else down - someone else from your ship. Maybe they will be female. That would be better. Female blood is, after all, much sweeter...

There is something familiar in the mind-meld - not in the form of it itself, or in the combination of the elements, but in the mind. Spock diverts just enough focus to examine it and realize that he is familiar with one them - it is the old man, the man who controlled the reptiles, the man with the staff. He is not a part of the meld, not really, but it seems to be tying it all together - like he is a tool they are using to prod their way into Spock’s mind.

You have one day; twenty-four Earth hours, because we are gracious hosts. We expect you at the temple tomorrow night, as the sun falls. If you do not turn yourselves in by then, the deaths of your friends will be entirely your fault.

Finally, their voices begin to recede, and their attacks cease. Spock does not move his attention from his shields, wary of another attack. When another minute passes without incident, he cautiously moves his attention and strength to repairing the damaged sections, the parts that have been splintered by the battering ram of their minds.

“Spock. Spock. Come on, Spock, you’ve gotta wake up. Spock!”

Yes, that is Jim’s voice- suddenly, it occurs to Spock that this might have been an elaborate distraction technique, to take him out of commission and strike at them when they were weak. Alarmed, he opens his eyes and jolts up - right into the surprised and worried arms and chest of Jim.

“Spock!” Jim, who had been hovering over Spock - he had almost rolled into the fire, he now realizes - doesn’t even look mildly embarrassed, despite the fact he is essentially holding Spock in his arms. He shifts back enough so that his chest is no longer touching Spock’s, but his arms still are. Through them, Jim’s thoughts and feelings are amplified - worry, almost overwhelming. Spock does not move away from the touch. “Jesus, what was that? Are you okay?”

“I am - I believe I am fine,” Spock amends. Gingerly, he lifts a head to his temple. It throbs as though he has a head wound or a concussion, but there is no physical sign of injury, no blood or swollen flesh. “My mental facilities were attacked.”   
Jim’s eyes widen. “Are you saying someone - what, tried to invade your mind?”   
“That is the general gist of it, yes,” Spock says, pushing himself up on the heels of his hand so he is fully sitting. Jim does not move to stop him, but he does not move to help him, either. “My shields have been damaged; I will need to meditate to repair them as soon as possible.”   
“Right, of course,” Jim says, distracted. His concern is so strong Spock can feel it through their link - possibly a result of the attack, but possibly a result of the contact between them, Jim’s hands on his shoulders, which do not move. “But you can fix it, right?”

“Affirmative, Jim,” Spock says, and notices the way Jim’s shoulders relax. “I do not believe they meant to harm me.”

“What? That doesn’t make - why would they attack you if they didn’t want to hurt you?” 

“They spoke to me, in my mind. I believe their intent was only to send us a message.”

Jim’s brow furrows. “What did they say to you?”

Spock hesitates a moment. “They claimed to be connected to the Myatan government.” Jim’s confused frown slips into a scowl. “They -” He cuts himself off again, shaking his head. “It was very disturbing.” He is unsure of how to describe it - he wishes to tell Jim what the voices said, but Jim also needs to understand the logistics of the attack, the feel of their minds, the way they had bonded their thoughts together. But was Jim, a member of a psi-null species, capable of understanding Spock’s description without experiencing the event himself?”   
“Maybe you should show me,” Jim says, as though he can sense Spock’s train of thought. When Spock looks up, surprised, he elaborates: “I mean, it seemed easier for the other Spock. The Ambassador, or whatever we’re calling him now. You could just...?” He gestures towards his meld-points.

“I do not - I do not wish to show you this memory,” Spock says, and Jim’s face falters a bit, so he explains, “It is an unpleasant experience. It was not painful, but it was - invasive, and inappropriate. I can attempt to explain it to you, but I am unsure -”

“It’s okay, Spock,” Jim says. “I mean, you obviously don’t have to show it to me if you don’t want to, but I’ll be fine. Nothing can be worse then -” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “I’ll be fine.”

“I do not wish to cause you undue pain,” Spock says, but even as the words leave his mouth he realizes his argument is futile - he is arguing against himself more then he is arguing against Jim. He will need to show Jim the memory in order for him to understand. “I may be capable of showing it to you without the accompanying emotions.”   
Jim nods readily. “Sure, sure,” he says, and Spock would think he sounded eager. “Uh, do you need to -” He gestures towards his cheek again.   
“No, Captain,” Spock says. “Now that we are linked, it is much easier. I can simply -”

show you.

He replays the memory for Jim, projecting it at him firmly enough that it will make it through the shields but tries to filter the edge out of it, his useless panic and the irrational feeling that he gets from an non-consensual mind-meld. He does not feel Jim’s emotions through their link, and he can’t see them either. He hopes Jim is not feeling them. He does not wish for Jim to feel any negative emotion, however seemingly trivial.

When the memory ends, he removes himself from Jim’s mind, solidifying the walls in his wake. He does not allow himself to linger, even if only to ascertain Jim’s opinions on the memory; while it would be more efficient, Spock understands that it is unwelcome, and an invasion of privacy, and sometimes it is logical to waste time in order to conserve one’s emotions.

Jim is not looking at Spock when he emerges from his mind, because is eyes are closed in order to give full attention to the memory. It seems unnecessary, but Spock does not comment as his eyes slowly flicker open. When his gaze meet Spock's, they reflect a myriad of emotions: offense, no doubt taken up on Spock's account, and vulnerability that Spock probably conveyed through the meld, as well as anger at the man and his companions. And, beneath it all, fear. Spock has always wondered at the emotions humans can convey with only their eyes; once, a long time ago, before Nyota had redefined their relationship, she had told him that his emotions were similarly manifested in his irises. She claimed that even when his face remained completely blank, she could tell whether he was angry or sad or happy through his eyes. Illogical, because as a Vulcan, he did not feel any of the emotions eh accused him of, but still an unpleasant thought, as it reminded Spock of his childhood bullies and their taunts about his human nature and emotive eyes.

“We have to turn ourselves in.” The statement, Spock observes, sounds both resigned and anticipatory. 

“I can see no other solution,” Spock agrees. Jim glances away from him, dropping his hands from where they rest on Spock’s shoulders. Spock had almost forgotten the contact - he only feels it now in it’s absence, the faint ache to his chest at the loss. 

“We -” Jim clears his throat, and looks down at his hands, as though he is examining the lines of them - the dirt embedded under his nails and their red hue, burned from the sun. “There’s nothing else we can do. I - shit!” He pushes himself up, suddenly, facing the rainforest, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “These people are assholes! They think they can just beam us down here and just take control of us, like - just like that! That’s not - god damn it, it’s one thing to threaten me, but they threaten my crew! I -” His anger seems to leave him at all once, and he slumps a little. “I can’t even do anything about it,” he says, turning back to face Spock. His expression is one Spock has never seen on him before - one of pure defeat. He looks as though he has accepted a no-win situation.

Spock considers his next words carefully; he knows they will carry much weight. “Jim,” he says, and gets to his feet so he can stand beside him. “You cannot loose hope.”

Jim looks even more downtrodden. “Loose - Spock, I’ve never had hope. I run on faith - stupid, misguided faith that I’ll be able to get myself out of every fucked up situation I land myself in. And I do, sure - but it’s always at a cost. This is just - this is the cost I can’t pay.” He snorts, self-deprecatingly, and it makes something rise in Spock’s chest - an ache and a flame and an anger all at once. “Shouldn’t you be happy? I finally got the message of the Kobyashi Maru - sometimes, you can’t cheat death.”   
“The Kobyashi Maru was a cheat,” Spock says, and he does not mean to say it - his mouth moves of it’s own accord - but he is glad he did when Jim looks up at him, surprised. “You said this at your disciplinary hearing; you were correct. Over the years of it’s existence, the true message of the Kobyashi Maru has become distorted. I assisted in this misrepresentation when I informed you that the moral of the test was to accept your fate in the face of certain death. I was incorrect.”

Something inside Jim is clearly warring with itself; his spirits appear reluctantly raised. “What are you saying, Spock?” 

“I am saying that my beliefs have changed. Since the destruction of my planet and the death of my mother, my view of life has - altered, you may say. My relationship with you, Captain, has also challenged my opinions and changed my judgment. After months of serving with you, I now conclude that the proper moral of the Kobyashi Maru is not to accept your fate but to challenge it. You have taught me that, Captain. Even in the face of certain death, you cannot give up hope.”

Jim swallows hard. Spock watches his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat - and that is such a strange name for a body part, a possessive and a fruit. Roots in religion and belonging to someone else - as if Jim has not always owned himself. Spock ignores the deep, instinctual part of him that wishes it were otherwise; Jim would never give himself up. Never that completely.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” he asks, and his voice is rasping as if a piece of fruit truly is lodged in his esophagus. “It’s not like we can - we don’t even understand them yet, it’s not like we can make a plan.”

Spock cocks his head, slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should go left, and you should go right.”

Jim just stares at him for a second. “Are you making fun of me?” he demands, and Spock assumes he is attempted to sound angry; it is not working. The wide grin splitting across his face is counterproductive. “Oh my god, you’re totally making fun of me, Spock.”

Spock keeps the corners of his mouth from tugging up, like they want to. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Captain,” he says. “It seems to be your favored plan of action, and is certainly quite - ah - thorough.”

Jim shakes his head, still grinning widely. “You’re making fun of me,” he repeats, and Spock is pleased that he managed to bring a smile to Jim’s face; he may still be doubting himself, and he may still be skeptical, but at least he is laughing. No matter how shallow an imitation of joy it may be. “I’m serious though, Spock, we will need a plan. We can’t just - waltz in there and expect to knock them all down with our phasers.”

“Granted, Captain,” Spock says, and mentally, he is running through scenarios, calculating odds and probabilities. “But we can, as you suggested, gather more information in order to devise a more accurate strategy.”

“How are we going to gather more information? We’ve been out here for like a week and we barely have anything. What’s twenty-four hours going to do?”   
“It is not the upcoming twenty-four hours I am speaking of, Jim; it is the hours that will follow.”

part vii -

In the morning when they pack up their campsite it is with a well-worn familiarity that seems borne of a much longer time spent in the desert, more then the two weeks they’ve been here. For once, instead of propping their water bowl on his head, Jim abandons it in the sand; with it they leave the half-woven mat Spock has been making, and the picked-apart remains of a fish and two tree rats.

“It’s kind of depressing,” Jim says as he glances out at the desolate sand. In the corner of his vision, Spock can see the patch of sand they had camped on the night before last; the tip of the sand dune from their first night rises from behind the trees. “I mean, there’s probably something poetic about this, right? Metaphoric. That we were stuck here for two weeks and we’re leaving - what? Some weirdly folded grass and a pile of ashes.”   
Spock does not respond for a moment. Perhaps Jim is speaking of the pointlessness of it - the illogicality behind the reasons they were here. Spock does not believe so, however. The symbolism behind poetry has always eluded him, as it is, without fail, inextricably linked to emotions. “Vulcans are not poets,” he finally says.

The corner of Jim’s lip quirks up a bit as he nods. “But humans are,” he says. The and you’re half-human goes unspoken. Spock could choose to comment on this, retort that his anatomy does not change the path he has chosen, does not change the fact that he follows the teachings of Surak, and represses all emotion. It does not matter that his mother may have found beauty in the curve of a rose petal or the slam of a tsunami as it tears houses to shreds, as insubstantial as dust in it’s wake. Or at least - it should not matter. But then Spock looks at Jim, and he cannot ignore the feelings in his chest, the sense of beauty in the line of his neck and the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline; the heart Spock knows is beating, just underneath Jim’s ribcage.

If his heritage does not matter, why can’t he control his emotions?

Spock does not know how to articulate this into words, precisely, does not know how to turn the letters into cohesive wholes that Jim will understand. He thinks there is a Vulcan word for it, and he is not yet positive of which one it is - perhaps Jim is only his katravah, but perhaps he is Spock’s ne ki’ne, and perhaps, if Spock is fortunate, he is his t’hy’la. Spock wishes he knew, and he wishes Jim spoke Vulcan; maybe, then, he would understand. But that can never happen, just as Spock will never again sit high on the cliffs of Vulcan as he stares out at rainclouds, summer rain that comes once a decade, that will soak into the parched desert almost before it has fallem. 

“Indeed,” is all Spock says. He knows Jim understands the double meaning to his words, even if he does not fully comprehend it himself. Before Jim can comment on this, or progress the topic further, he clears his throat. It seems to break the silence that has fallen, and is growing heavier on their shoulders by the second. “If you are ready, Captain, I will enter your mind.”

“Okay,” Jim says, and beneath the facade of ease Spock can hear his nerves, the tremor to his voice. If Spock had time to dwell on it, it might make him unhappy, that Jim does not trust him fully; but perhaps he does, and this is simply another trait of humanity. In any case, Spock does not have time to think on it; he has already prepared himself for what is to come. On his back is his pack, filled with their things, and Jim wears an identical one. They’ll likely need to drop them shortly after they make it into the forest, but Spock had deemed it logical to maintain their hold on them until they proved a liability. Jim winds the fingers of one hand in his straps, the other gripping his phaser. Spock tightens his hold on his own; it is set to kill.

Spock takes a deep breath, and almost closes his eyes - then hesitates, lets them flicker open. “Jim -” he starts, and Jim reopens his eyes, looks up at Spock, surprised. “I apologize for any pain this may cause you,” he says. “And I apologize for the emotions you are about to see.”

Jim frowns and looks like he wants to ask about it, but he seems to understand this is not the time or place. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “Just - do it. Hit me with your best shot.”   
The shields Spock had erected between them are shoddy, rocky at best, and so it does not take Spock long to dissemble them. The first layer flies off, and then the second, just as quickly. It is similar to lowering his regular mental shields, but simultaneously different; he is dissolving these, not taking them down.

By the time Spock reaches the fifth and final layer, he can hear Jim’s thoughts, somewhat hazily through the smokescreen between them. There is a faint song in his thoughts, Spock thinks, one he has never heard before. It is like - rock and roll, he believes is the genre, and it is loud and grating. Why don’t cha hit me with your best shot, come on and hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me. If he had to guess, he would state it’s origins to be the twentieth or twenty-first century.

When the last layer of his shields are taken down, Jim’s emotions leak through to Spock’s mind; for a moment, Spock is overwhelmed by them, like they are a flood and he has never learned to swim, and he is drowning. Then he catches a piece of Jim’s thoughts, like driftwood (the rock song playing through antique car speakers, the crackling of the woman’s voice and a girl beside Jim in the front seat of the car, giggling and blushing with her hand in Jim’s and a hickey from his mouth sucked into her neck and pride, happiness) and uses it to drag himself up.

That’s - disorienting, Jim thinks. Spock latches on to the thought and uses it to keep steady. He had experienced this, he knows - only a few days ago, in fact. It should not be this overpowering. He sends a general feeling of assent in Jim’s direction, and he knows when he gets it because it’s echoed back at him, like a voice bouncing off of a canyon.

“Perhaps it would be better to speak aloud,” Spock says. The act of doing so seems to anchor him to the real world, where he’s standing on the edge of an oasis, not drowning in Jim’s mind. He shakes his head, shifts his feet in the sand, roots himself.

“Good idea,” Jim says. He sounds breathless, as though he has been running. The wave of emotions he is projecting is almost making Spock breathless, too - the awe at the seamless melding of their minds, the fascination at the ease of Spock’s thoughts and feelings, and at the back, almost buried under it, the anticipation and nervousness at the coming fight.

“So,” Jim says, clearing his throat. He is glancing back and forth at the forest wall, abrupt at it’s meeting with the desert and seemingly empty. Spock knows better. “Any specific place you want to start?”

Spock cocks his head. “I do not believe it will make a difference, Captain,” he says, and the title does not distance Spock as he intends for it to. “As the old man has professed, they know our exact location.”   
“Right,” Jim says. “I keep forgetting that.” He lifts his phaser, which is hanging by his side, into his ready position; Spock does the same. “Ready?”

“Affirmative, Captain.”  
 “Then let’s go,” Jim says, and takes the five steps forward into the jungle.

Jim apparently expects something to leap out at them the moment they set foot into the forest; tension rolls off of him in waves, and his hands grip tighter on his phaser each step further into the oasis they take. After they’ve made it almost a half kilometer, Jim stops, turning to Spock and frowning. This is a pretty anticlimactic entrance for all the drama the dude was making out of it.

Perhaps his dramatics were only an act. It seems logical that he would use a human weakness against us - your species’ penchant for drama and emotional displays is, as you may say, a ‘chink in your armor’.

“Oh, shut up with your logic,” Jim mutters, in response to Spock’s thoughts. Spock opens his mouth to reply, and that is when Jim gets the spectacle he was expecting: there is a hiss from behind them, and two reptiles emerge from the underbrush, quicker then the predecessors Spock is familiar with, and larger as well. The taller reptile, likely the female, appears to be heading the attack, as it sweeps out of the brush first, moving to circle them. The male seems content to flank it, standing a few feet to its right, though it keeps the female in front of it.

How much bigger do you think they are? Jim asks Spock, and Spock quickly tries to complete his calculations. The circumference of their paw is thirty-nine point six eight percent larger, but it is only twenty-two point one percent taller, and Spock cannot measure it’s length at this time.

Significantly, he says, and he feels the small jolt of surprise from Jim at the generalization, but it disappears quickly enough.

Plan? he asks, and while there is no tremor to his thoughts, there is undeniable nervous tone to his emotions, mingled with the anticipation, the excitement, the uncertainty.

I will take the female; you can take the male, Spock says.

You know that’s not much better then going left and right, Jim points out, and a faint memory of their conversation drifts over their link. And I don’t even know which one is the male.

Of course. Jim only study xenobiology in higher-order creatures. Spock had almost forgotten. He projects the image of the male to Jim, half-covered as it is by the female's body, and immediately Spock can tell from the train of Jim's thoughts that he is going to protest the point. But before Jim can, the female jabs her neck out at them, and their rudimentary plan is put into action.

At first, Spock doesn't have time to attack offensively; he has to duck, quickly, under the reptile's jaw, letting it's head sail over his his. It retracts before he has a chance to counterattack, but he manages to catch a glimpse of the run under it's jaw - yellow and thick, but blurred. It would not matter if she were slower, though, because he would still be unable to see the rune properly. The scales cover her underbelly just as well as they cover her back, and Spock remembers the uselessness of his phaser against the first pair, recalling the hollow sound they made when they brushed against the trees. They're impenetrable.

Even as he begins to formulate a plan, the reptile sticks out it’s right paw, and he has to weave to avoid it, deathly sharp claws digging into the dirt by his feet. She hisses, tongue flicking out to fast for Spock to catch. But it’s the only weakness she’s displayed, his only chance to injure her, and so despite the low chances of success, Spock steps back and squares himself, raising his phaser.

Beside him, Spock knows Jim is fighting his own battle. Through their mental link, he can tell he is faring adequately, if not well. It's the clam that comes from his knowledge, the relaxation he gleans from it, that allows him to narrow his vision to a single small point - the tip of the reptile's jaw, where her tongue snaps out to taste the fear of her prey. She steps forward towards him, preparing to charge while he is in a vulnerable position, and Spock can see the tension in her jaws, knows which move he'll make next. He is prepared, and so the second her tongue is fully extended from her mouth, he shoots. The phaser shot hits her tongue at it's base, severing it. It falls to the ground with a thud. A wave of disgust washes through Spock, and he suspects it is from their link. But he cannot be sure. It is incredibly hard to tell.

In front of him, the female recoils, comprehending the blow she’s just been dealt. She does not seem to understand that the appendage lying on the soil had, only moments ago, been a part of her. Her expression is almost wary as she prods at it with her foot. Spock wonders if she can feel the pain.

It gives him a brief but welcome respite, and he uses it to ascertain how Jim is faring. Surprising, he finds Jim has improved from the first fight. Watching through Jim’s eyes but leaving his own gaze locked on the female reptile, Spock watches as Jim moves forward, goading the male, then jumps back as it’s paw swipes through the air. It is true that the attack is not necessarily efficient - Jim will likely tire faster then the reptile - but Jim has yet to be knocked onto his back, and so Spock thinks it is not an entire failure, either.

He feels a twinge of annoyance from across their link, and he knows Jim has heard the thought. Maybe Spock will explain it to him, at a later date, but now is not the time - now, the female lizard has recovered from her loss, and only seems more enraged. She charges again.

The battle continues in that fashion for several more minutes, with Spock spending more time dodging the lizard's blows then anything. It seems fond of trying to stomp on him, like an insect that needs to be exterminated - overly fond, in Spock's opinion - but her tail is another appendage she uses frequently. He is more cautious around her tail then her paws, aware of it's speed and strength. It is that strength that injured Jim and was largely responsible for their two-week stranding in the desert.

Finally, however, she gets fed up and, hissing, takes a few steps back from Spock, stilling her thrashing tail. Spock had not anticipated this, but he had hoped; she opens her mouth to snap at him.

It's all the opening Spock needs. Even as her neck stretches forward and her jaws open wide, he is firing into her mouth, once on her cheeks, twice off the stump of her tongue, three times and it finally disappears down her throat. By the time Spock lowers his phaser, the lizard is slumping back onto the ground, the bloody end of her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Spock doesn't even spare a moment to regain his breath before he is turning to Jim's fight, just in time to watch Jim roll to the right out of the way of the creature's paws. Then, standing quickly, Jim fires three shots into a long cut on the back of its neck, one Spock had not noticed before. The already inflamed flesh glows momentarily blue, and the reptile, seething - not just from the injury, Spock is sure - snaps out its tail. It knocks the phaser from Jim's grasp, and it goes skidding onto the dirt.

Jim is now defenseless. Satisfied, the reptile opens it’s mouth to snap at him. Jim is not adequately prepared to defend himself and Spock cannot defend him, either - Jim is in the way of his shot.

Jim, Spock thinks quickly, as the reptile rises onto it’s haunches and Jim fumbles for a weapon. Spock hopes this works. Duck. 

Jim rolls to the ground as the Spock takes aim, and, as the reptile raises a foot to stomp on him, shoots once, twice, five times into his mouth. He falls back with a thud.

“Thanks,” Jim says, pushing himself to his feet and the his hair back off of his forehead. It brushes against the stubble of his cheek. For a moment, a great wave of relief overwhelms Spock - Jim is alive, Jim is not injured, nothing is wrong with Jim at all, save for the sheen of sweat across his skin. The protective feeling in his stomach flares momentarily, then settles a moment later with the inquisitive look Jim sends into Spock’s mind.

What was that?

Nothing. 

“You should probably check for it,” Jim says aloud, taking a step forward to join Spock beside the reptile’s head. He glances around at the forest, and Spock feels his wave of apprehension. He leaves part of his awareness on Jim’s thoughts, and his observations of the world around him, but for the most part he concentrates on the male lizard’s head, dropping to his knees beside it. He has to lift the skull and move it so he can see the underside of the jaw. The rune is there, undeniable - it’s the same symbol that’s scratched into the dirt at the edges of the forest, the same symbol that’s engraved in the man’s staff.

It is as we expected, Spock thinks, and sends Jim an image of the rune. They have been marked. He tilts the neck, angling the scales against the glint of the light, trying to discern if there are any more markings. There are scratches on some scales, dingy edges and a leaf stuck under one of them, but there don’t appear to be any more runes. Spock - 

Spock.

\- is interrupted by his own name.

Jim? Spock asks, quickly rising. What is wrong?

Jim is not looking at him. Spock, he says again, and there is a harried tone to his voice that hadn’t been there a few moments ago. Look. Spock glances at his face - his gaze is locked on the forest, and Spock follows it to the gap between two palm trees where a reptile paw is pushing it’s way free of the underbrush. 

Spock wonders how many there are and inadvertently sends the thought to Jim - not that he has to think to send any of them, anyway. I don’t know, Jim replies, and Spock watches through his eyes as he glances to the left, to the right. He spots two more paws in the underbrush, sufficiently spaced that they each belong to a separate reptile; he also catches a glimpse of a tail from between two leaves.

Spock does the calculations; there are at least four of them, likely more. He and Jim are capable of defending themselves from one point two eight nine reptiles at a time; no matter how brash or ineffective the creatures’ attack plan may be, Spock and Jim will tire long before they manage to escape, or defeat them.

Perhaps it would be best to -

Behind them, there is a cough. It is undeniable, hoarse, familiar. It is as they had expected.

Slowly, Spock lowers his phaser into his belt. I have the information we require, he tells Jim, and Jim hesitates a moment before lowering his own phaser.

We better be right about this, he thinks, and Spock is hit with a wave of supreme gratuity - that Jim said we instead of you, despite the fact Spock had conceived their plan. It is illogical, but it is unresponsive to his attempts at repression. He ignores it instead.

“I see you have returned to our fine home,” he old man says. His voice filters from behind Spock. Spock moves slowly as he turns, careful not to make any sudden, sharp movements that may startle or anger the reptiles. Jim follows his lead.

The old man is standing in the woods behind them, one hand on the head of the reptile next to him, stroking it. The lizard seems content; Spock files the information away for future reference. Perhaps he also uses it as a distraction, from his nerves at the impending situation. He would not, however, admit that if asked - though, he suspects, Jim has heard the thought in his mind.

“We have been expecting you for quite a time,” the old man says. “I have to admit, you were much more - persistent, then we had anticipated. But it is no matter now.” His hand stills on the reptile’s head, then drops back to his side. “Come.”

-

Really, Jim thinks, it’s all quite dramatic.

It’s the old man’s fault, really. Not their stranding - though he’s probably mostly responsible for that, too. The drama of it. If he was from Earth, Jim would say he majored in theatre - dying job as it may be - because, seriously, the way he delivers his lines? Like they’re out of a holovid script, and always with some dramatic tone or smirk, some weird quirk of his eyebrows. Really, it’s overacting, but - well, Jim’s not exactly in a position to point this out.

Yet, at least.

And you know, he’d actually be doing quite a bit of talking, later. His and Spock’s plan relies heavily on that - on his ability to chatter meaninglessly in at least a semi-interesting way. Or a semi-occupying way, whatever. Same thing. Jim has to admit, he’d been a little worried about it before - what if the old man wasn’t the talkative type? What if he made Jim be quiet? What if Jim couldn’t think of anything to say? Jim doesn’t think that’ll be a problem anymore, though. All he has to do is ask one or two questions, and he’s sure the guy’ll take care of the evil-villain monologue all on his own. And maybe give away some information they can use, too. Who knows.

Anyway, point being: after the old guy captures them - and, you know what, Jim is getting sick of calling him the old guy, even if it’s in the not-really privacy of his own mind, he’s going to call him Gandalf again - anyway, after that, as he’s leading them through the woods with a shit-ton of lizards on their tails, he says, “It was very bad of you to run away like that.” Which sounds really creepy, really BDMS, especially considering the matter-of-fact, casual tone he says it in. Like he takes people prisoner every day. And they’re, like, the annoying outliers who don’t want to go with the plan.

Sort of like a dentist, Jim thinks, when he’s trying to give you a root canal and you don’t really want to open your mouth. Condescending, patronizing. Jim always hates the dentist, and for a moment he thinks about the woman he used to go to back in Iowa, the wrinkled old lady with one green eye and one blue eye. He thinks she’d like it here, maybe. She’d fit in with Gandalf, at least. Then they could get married and have a bunch of reptile-babies.

Jim realizes he’s zoning out and makes himself focus again, despite the unpleasantness of it. They’re tromping through plain old forest, now, no paths for them to follow, and he’ll probably trip if he doesn’t concentrate.

Unfortunately, concentrating means existing in the present; a.k.a. the place where Spock is murmuring in Jim’s mind and Gandalf is blabbering about everywhere else. No silence anywhere, for Jim, and it’s not like that’s a horrible thing - god knows he’s had enough of silence the past few weeks, the strange stillness of his link with Spock, the unnatural way it existed in his brain but did not function, and he still doesn’t know whether or not that’s normal, something his human mind conjured up and to be expected, or something more. And that’s because he didn’t ask. For all the brave starship Captain he’s perceived to be, he really can be a coward when it comes to emotions. At times - usually those related to Spock - he can be as bad as Spock.

And, yeah, Jim’s really glad Spock’s busy doing calculations right now, because if he wasn’t? Jim would be screwed.

Not that he actually knows what’s Spock’s running calculations about. Maybe he’s still trying to decode the meaning of the glyph they keep seeing everywhere, but it’s they’d already guessed - reasonably so, if Jim does say so himself - that it was related to confinement, control. What else makes sense? It’s why the lizards are under Gandalf’s command, it’s why they can’t leave the forest, it’s why they’re trapped in a prison of their own making (if Jim’s guessing is correct, but he hasn’t told Spock about that part yet anyway).

“You know, we were getting really serious about getting some other tributes sent down here,” the guy says suddenly, but with the air of ending a long speech. It draws Jim back out of his thoughts - which he’s been slipping into a lot, lately. Maybe it’s a side effect of being linked to a Vulcan. “Really, I mean, the governors send us off-worlders and expect us to be happy about it when they run off into the desert? We don’t even know if your blood is going to work for the ceremony - well, yours probably will,” he says, glancing at Jim, “but your Vulcan friend? We’re not xenophobes or anything, but I’m just not sure if green blood will have the same effect as - ah!” The man brushes aside a fern frond and pauses; Jim can’t see his face but he can see the smile in his stance, the relaxation in his muscles. Jim can’t see past him, either, but he knows it’s a clearing, can tell from the lack of leaves fluttering in the distance. “We’re here!” He takes a few steps forward and to the side, giving Jim and Spock an unobstructed view of the clearing.

Right in the middle, taking up most of the space, is the temple.

The fucking temple. The same one they saw at the top of the sand dune, Jim knows; because even if he didn’t recognize the similarities in the steeple, he’s not an idiot and, really, what are the chances there are two giant golden temples in this oasis? Low, Jim guesses. Real low.

If Jim wasn’t kidnapped, and if he was here by his own volition, he thinks he might find it beautiful. It really is breathtaking, the way it rises up and catches the sunlight, as though it’s reaching for the clouds. Jim thinks it’s fairly reminiscent of the Asian temples he’s seen in documentaries, the ones in Thailand and Indonesia that are closed off, now, to protect the foundations from erosion. It’s got four long sets of staircases, stretching up on all sides of the square platform it rests on, and it cumulates in a square building, fat and squat, that slopes to a point in the roof. There’s a huge, open double door in the middle, carved out of red wood, and it looks like it could fit twenty men side by side, that’s how big it is. 

And, seriously? Jim feels like he’s in a holovid - like a hidden camera show, where they put you in ridiculous situations and see how you react. He has no doubt this would make holovid gold. Hell, he’d watch it - and he might even enjoy it, at that. In person, though, it’s not so funny. It’s more ridiculous, and nerve wracking, because temples are related to religion, and kidnappings related to religious practices are never, ever a good thing.

Jim learned that lesson with the Alkians.

“Come on, hurry up, I know she’s pretty but we haven’t got all day,” the man says, gesturing a hand for them to move forward. There’s something in his voice, when he says she - it’s the tone Jim often gets when he talks about the Enterprise, the one any Starship Captain or crew member would recognize. It makes him nervous, a bit - he knows what he’d do to protect the Enterprise, and it’s not pretty - but then he glances over and sees Spock, exactly parallel to him, and the concentrated look on his face makes him relax, a bit. He retreats into his mind enough so that he’s fully aware of Spock’s thoughts, the numbers swirling everywhere like it’s natural for him. Jim knows the feeling; it’s relaxing.

Gandalf leads them to the base of one of the staircases - the one at the front, that leads right up to the glowing, gilded doorframe. Jim notices the building materials - even the steps of the staircase are paved in gold, if slightly dulled at the parts where people’s feet have worn it away. Jim spares a second to wonder if it’s real or not. If it is, it could be worth a fortune.

“My sisters will be so glad to see you,” the man says as they top the staircase. It’s semi-new information; Spock and Jim had known he was working with accomplices, had figured it out from his mind-meld, but they hadn’t know they were related. It doesn’t really matter aside from the fact they might be more willing to fight for each other - but if Spock and Jim implement their plan correctly, it won’t matter either way. “The elders have been so impatient, and my poor sisters have had to appease them. It is true, they did not require much, but it is a painful process -” They have reached the open door, now, and Jim realizes he has underestimated it’s size. It reaches at least forty feet tall, and could probably fit two of the giant reptiles, toe to tail. The man slips inside, moving around the half-open door, and gestures for Jim to follow. Apprehensively, he does; Spock copies his movements, but the reptiles stay outside the door.

Would you look at that? Jim says. It looks like our crazy-ass guesses were right.

His voice seems to draw Spock from his math problems; slowly, the numbers begin to disappear. They’re replaced with sentences and emotions - the same ones Jim still can’t believe, even after being in Spock’s mind for this long, because he hadn’t realized Vulcans’ had emotions, not like that. Obviously, he’d known they felt - Ambassador Spock had taught him that, and rather violently, too - but before he’d linked his mind with Spock, he hadn’t known just how much they repressed. They have the little mood swings humans do, too, the little waves of concern or anxiety or amusement from little things, little sentences. Jim really doesn’t get how he can hide that, all the time - how he’s capable, mentally, physically, and, yes, emotionally. It definitely displays more self-control then Jim will ever have.

“Spock, Jim,” the man says. An icy feeling sweeps down Jim’s spine as he realizes the man knows his name. He must have heard it, in Spock’s mind - or, god, what if he was just eavesdropping on Jim and Spock’s thoughts, right now? What if he can read everything - including their plan? It sends a jolt of anxiety through Jim, but before he can dwell on it, the man is gesturing forwards, speaking with clear expectancy in his voice. “These are my sisters.”

Before them, in the dead center of the hall, are two old women, both looking just as frail as the man. They’re also both littered with cuts - some are fresh and others are scabbed over, and others still are still seeping blood. The two women are sitting on silver thrones pressed up against a banquet table - and it really does look like a banquet table, except it hasn’t got any food. Shame, Jim thinks. He’s really quite hungry. He figures Spock wouldn’t let him eat the food anyway, though.

Scattered across the wooden surface of the table are trinkets - figurines and bowls and goblets, some decorated with half-dead flowers, others unadorned. Aside from the blood, of course - they’re all dotted in it, some of them soaked, and a couple of the wooden figurines have turned permanently red, probably from all the blood they absorbed - and it’s the women’s blood, Jim figures, going off their injuries and what Gandalf had said. Really, it’s quite gross - and creepy, of course.

“Brother,” the two women say, and simultaneously, at that. That’s creepy, too. Their voices are faint, like they’re about to fall asleep, and shallow; still, Jim feels a twinge of recognition from Spock, through their link. He glances into Spock’s mind and hears a snippet of a memory, a replay: these are the two other voices that attacked Spock. It makes sense, he guesses. It’s all a family business, right?

Gandalf moves forward, rounding the table. Jim realizes he’s making towards the other throne - the one set between the two sisters’, also made of silver but covered in elaborate carvings. It’s mainly flora and fauna, but it’s not stuff you’d find out here - it’s all fairly reminiscent of Earth, Jim thinks, petals shaped like daisies’ and the thorny stems of roses. He almost feels a little homesick when he thinks of his mom’s garden - but now is not the time for nostalgia. No matter how many years it’s been since he’s been back in Iowa.

“I apologize for the wait,” Gandalf says as he settles behind the throne; not sitting, just standing there, with his hands on the top of it. He’s really working the sarcasm, Jim thinks - it’s all quite sassy. Appropriate, for a super-villian/kidnapper/whatever, but still. Not exactly expected from a hundred year old man, you know? Jim can picture him young really easy, though - less wrinkles and darker hair, with his lips pursed and a hot pink boa wrapped around his neck. Very flamboyant, that’s what Jim thinks.

There’s a faint flare of displeasure from Spock at that, and a hint of the fire Jim’s been trying to avoid, if not because it’s unpleasantness then because of it’s strength; he thinks about something else.

“You know,” Gandalf says, looking directly at Jim and Spock, “you two really are the most annoying tributes we’ve ever had.” 

“Maybe we should get an award,” Jim suggests, and a wave of disapproval literally rolls out of Spock’s mind and into Jim’s.

Distraction, Spock reminds him. Your job is simply to distract him, not anger him further.

Sorry, Spock, Jim thinks, and there’s a hint of actual genuine apology behind his words. I’m not very good at innocent questions.

You might have mentioned that before we got here.

Jim is about to reply when the man starts speaking again, drawing his attention. He’s got a patronizing smile on his face, the type Jim is intensely familiar with. He’s certainly seen plenty of them in his childhood, been on the receiving end of them from teachers and principals and professors - generally authority figures of all types. Except for cops, of course - gotta love the robots. “I don’t see any use in that,” Gandalf says. “You’ll be dead and bled-out in a few hours anyway, and it seems like a waste of good materials.”

“Yeah, what’s this you keep mentioning about blood?” There’s definitely a bite to Jim’s tone, but he thinks the man might ignore it in favor of the ranting opportunity - he’s a super villain, he’s definitely proved that, and what super villain lets the opportunity for an evil monologue pass him by? Like Jim had said earlier: hopefully, it’ll be easy. “I mean, it seems to be sort of a fixation around here. And, you know, if you’re going to use my blood for something, I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”

Gandalf just stares at him for a moment, expression almost unreadable - he looks calculating. Finally, he glances down from Jim’s sharp stare, murmuring something to one of his sisters, and she nods, standing. The other sister follows suit, and they begin to gather the cups and goblets scattered across the table-top. They are shaky on their feet, but they seem to be managing. And Jim has no idea what this is about, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t bode well. He thinks. 

“You have no rights, here,” Gandalf says finally, as he looks back up at Jim. His expression has lost a bit of the playfulness, though it’s no less arrogant, no less cocky. It’s almost like Jim is facing off against himself, seventy years in the future. If he was evil, of course. Which he’s not. Obviously. 

“What’s the harm in explaining, though?” Jim asks. “I mean, what am I going to do with the information? Take it to my grave, right? I’m just curious, is all. Want to know more about how this baby works.” And he glances around at the temple walls, trying to seem suitably impressed and approving.

“We do not care if your curiosity is satisfied,” the man says, but he still explains. He’s probably been holding this rant in for a while, now, Jim thinks, and he almost feels a little bad for him. He’s clearly gone insane out here, with no one but a bunch of giant geckos and his ancient sisters, who Jim is pretty sure are off their rockers as well. “Your blood will be used to sate the masters - you will be their yearly feast, where they will reawaken to gorge themselves on your blood, fuel for the upcoming year spent in hibernation.”   
Jim knows he’s not supposed to be antagonizing this guy, but he can’t help it; he raises an eyebrow. “Just two peoples’ blood?” he asks. “For multiple masters? Doesn’t that seem like, I don’t know, an inadequate amount? How can they gorge themselves on that?”

“Blood is very filling,” Gandalf says. He’s got a sort of creepy half-smile on his face now. “And they have small stomaches.” Oh, and great, sarcasm again. Or maybe that’s not sarcasm. Jim doesn’t really have a frame of reference; he’s not going to judge.

“Yeah, who is this ‘they’ we’re taking about?” Jim asks instead. “Your masters, or whatever. I never got the whole backstory on that.”   
Spock and Jim had inferred most of it, Jim thinks, but the more information the better, right? And while it’s true Spock’s not running calculations anymore, it’s also true that Spock seems distracted. Jim doesn’t know by what, but it’s not a pleasant feeling, and Jim is sort of worried about him. So sue him if he wants to give Spock a chance to recover. Besides, they’re not in position yet.

That’s more logical. He should have started with that.

“Our masters, the elders, have been here for millennia,” the man says, “and they will be here for millennia more. They first came here when they were banished - unfairly, I might add - from the main city of Myata, when it was still just starting out, when it’s sewers still ran in the streets and bodies were found daily in back allies, killed from the plague.” His sisters are still gather the bloody trinkets from the table, but he makes no move to help them, tightening his fingers on the back of the chair. So he’s not just sassy - he’s an asshole, too. “My masters were forced to build their empire here - beautiful, isn’t it? They created Es-den, turned a single bubbling spring, a few leaves, and a couple of geckos into this.” He sighs, contentedly - he’s got that same look on his face that Jim sometimes gets when he’s talking about his ship, and Jim doesn’t like it. “They encouraged it to grow, used their minds - I mean, look around. Just look what can be achieved with just a little magic.”   
“M-magic?” Jim can’t help but be taken off guard. He’s read about it in fairytales, of course, and seen the occasional holovid where it plays a role, but in real life - there’s no way. “What do you mean, magic?”

“Well.” The man tilts his head a bit. “Magic, mind-control, same thing. Really, the way they bend their minds - it’s magic, I’m telling you.” He shakes his head. “Either way, they built this place - an oasis, a paradise - out of runes. Tell me, could you do that?” He huffs a bit, leaning back. “Of course you couldn’t. You don’t know how to meld minds with another creature; you don’t know how to control it. It doesn’t matter whether or not you were able to mark it.”

It makes sense, what he’s saying; it fits in with Jim and Spock’s theories. If the runes are being used to control something, it makes sense that they’d have to be linked to someone’s mind - magic, after all, doesn’t exist. Spock had already explained this to Jim, though, and their plan should work - should being the operative word, here.  
 “Maybe I won’t ever be able to do that. But, hey - I don’t ever have to kill anyone to get that power, either.”  
 The man waves a hand, unconcerned. “Bah. Sacrifices must be made for legacy. I know this better then anyone - it was, after all, my parents who were once sent here to die. It is why my sisters and I remain here, now. As orphans, the elders took us in, trained us to be their apprentices, to assist them. They were kind to us.”

Jim’s eyes widen. He’d thought the sisters were crazy, but clearly Gandalf was pretty far off his rocker, too. “You’re okay with the fact they killed your parents?” Dimly, he’s aware that Spock is doing something, trying to tell Jim what he’s doing without thinking it, but Jim is too concentrated on the guy in front of him, and he’s not entirely clear on what it is. It’s got something to do with the communicator, he knows, and a black box.

“Why should I be bitter? Bitterness has ever helped anyone - and, besides, I never knew my parents. They died to give me a better life, and now it is being used to serve a higher purpose.” His sisters have cleared the table, now, and have all the bloody cups stowed away, somewhere, behind a pillar; now they are arranging a mat on the table, clearly intended to be ornamental but stained with blood. “And besides, even if we wanted to we could not change our lives; Myata would not allow us back into it’s walls, not now. If they do not want the elders in the city, then they do not want their apprentices.” 

“That’s how you’d classify yourself, then,” Jim says. “An apprentice? You’ve been here for god knows how many years, and you and your sisters are just apprentices?”

That almost makes the man falter - he only pauses for a moment, though, before he is moving again, shaking his head. “It is not our place to be more. The elders are superior to all, and we can’t ever hope to reach their level of wisdom, of power.” His sisters finish smoothing the creases on the tablecloth, and set a chest in it’s dead center. They open it, but Jim can’t see what’s inside - they are blocking his view. “I have no more time for your questions, now. The ceremony of the blood-tasting will begin, soon, and we have to prepare. And then, of course, there is the ceremony of the blood-draining... So you two just - hang tight, okay?” He smirks at them. And don’t think of doing anything. Don’t forget - there’s still a horde of lizards right behind you, waiting to taste your flesh, and I have no doubt they’d be all too happy for an excuse to enter the temple and destroy you.” He flashes them another grin, before he finally bends to help his sisters - they are setting up a bronze candelabra behind the wooden box. Finally, Jim retreats to his thoughts.

What did you find?

In the corner of the room, Spock thinks, projecting an image to Jim. It is a black box, and looks sort of like an old-fashioned computer terminal, only it’s got weird antennae on the top, and blinking lights. It is outdated model, but I believe it is modern enough that it may be the cause for our blocked signal.

For a moment, Jim is disbelieving. Are you telling me, he says, that they can control an entire race of giant lizards but they need this prehistoric thing to block our comm signals?

Well, Spock thinks, I do not believe they can write runes on our comm signals.

It almost makes Jim snort - not just what he says, but the matter of fact tone with which he says it. It’s so - Spock. There’s something bubbling under the surface of that, Jim knows, but he doesn’t want to question it. Not now, not when - not now.

We implement the plan, then? Jim asks, and Spock nods, not physically, but mentally.

Indeed, Captain, he says. At my signal.

Jim’s pulled back to the present by Gandalf’s voice. In the time he’s been zoned out, apparently they’ve been busy - the table is now laid out with instruments. There’s the candelabra in the middle, and silver bowls, and several spoons. There’s also two sharp utensils that have clearly come from the wooden box - there are indents from where they used to lay on the velvet lining of the box - and Jim really doesn’t want to think of the use of those. 

“You two,” is what Gandalf says. “Come forward.”   
Jim glances over at Spock, but he’s not looking at Jim. He’s looking straight ahead at the man, and he’s following his instructions; not time, then. Jim follows his lead, and they approach the table.

Remember, Spock says as they grow closer, the moment I give you my signal, you must run for the machine.

I know, Spock, Jim says. They’re moving really slowly, and Gandalf seems fed up by it - in one hand he’s holding the really sharp thing, and with the other he’s beckoning them forward.

On my mark: three, and they’re only a couple feet from the table now. Two, and they’re even closer. Gandalf holds his his hand towards Spock’s, even though he’s still too far away to reach. One, and Gandalf says, “Give me your wrist,” and Spock is reaching out. Gandalf’s fingers are inches away from his pulse point when Spock thinks, zero, and his hand is no longer outstretched and willing. It is clenched, into a fist, and he hits an uppercut and two short hooks, a jab and a cross and a kick, and snatches the cane from the man’s hand while he is surprised, turning and snapping it in half on his knee.

The reptiles who had been advancing stop, suddenly, when the cane is broken - the glyphs carved into it are cut into jagged halves, now. They no longer hold meaning, and they are no longer linked to minds. Spock discards one half of the cane, and hefts the other in his hands, preparing for counterattack.

Jim wants to stay and watch but he remembers what Spock had told him, knows how essential it is to their plan. He ducks out of the way of the man and dashes towards the corner of the room, while he’s still occupied with Spock and he doesn’t notice Jim’s departure. Jim’s communicator is still hooked in his belt, next to the empty loop for his phaser, and he pulls it out as he falls to his knees beside the black box.

Spock was right; it’s the reason for their blocked signal. Of course Spock was right. The system is really quite rudimentary, like something back from First Contact, with the yellow, white, and red switches and the series of blinking lights. The easiest thing would be to break it, but stuff from the twenty-first century is surprisingly thick and resilient, and just stomping on it probably wouldn’t do anything but hurt’s Jim’s feet. Jim examines the box. It’s like a twenty-first century television, and Jim knows those well - it’s all Frank would let him tinker with, when he was a kid and just getting into mechanics, even if he already knew more about it then any of the guys at the garage downtown. Jim could take this apart in his sleep.

A scuffle from behind him draws Jim’s attention; it’s coming from the table, and sounds like bone hitting bone. His task is simple enough that he lets himself retreat into his mind, a bit, just enough to see how Spock is faring in his fight - and it’s not good. They had expected that, of course, but it doesn’t make it any less painful when he sees the man hit Spock on the back of the knee with half of his broken cane, somehow wrenched from Spock’s grasp, doesn’t make it any less painful seeing how it makes him stumble. The two sisters are still conscious as well, even if they’re not fighting as hard as their brother. Jim doesn’t know why and doesn’t care.

“Damn tributes!” the man says as Spock ducks under his cane and hits him in the stomach. It’s a wonder he’s not unconscious on the ground by now, considering his age and all. Maybe he’s being bolstered by something - maybe that’s what his sisters are doing, feeding him energy through their mental bond. Or maybe it’s the elders.

Jim flicks the yellow switch; disconnects the line; waits for the first blinking light to go out; white switch. Repeat. From behind him there is a sharp knocking sound, an impact, and a gasp of pain that does not come from Spock; Jim knows what Spock sounds like when he is in pain, when he expresses sound at all, and that is not it. It’s reassuring, just as much as it is when he hears the cry of outrage from the old man, the, “No!”, and thud of a body landing on the floor. He flicks the red switch, disconnects the line, and waits for the third blinking light to go out. He watches from Spock’s mind, sees one of the sister’s body hit the ground, having been nerve-pinched.

He turns his attention away from the fight. There are just two more lights, now, and he’s sure Spock can fare by his own - yellow switch, disconnect the line, waiting and waiting while the light blinks and blinks. He grips his communicator tightly in his right hand, preparing, waiting - 

A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder. Jim freezes, caught of guard - how did the man slip past? Did Spock - his mind flicks to Spock, and he sees Spock is still fighting, not gravely injured, just occupied. He’s fine, it’s just that apparently the second sister is actually putting up a fight, with the candelabra hefted in one hand. Great.

He turns slowly, and tries to smile at the man. It feels more like a grimace. “No need to squeeze so hard there,” he says, but his voice has lost the biting, cocky tone to it. It sounds shaky, and more then a little scared. I’m a Starfleet Captain, he reminds himself. I’m not supposed to be scared.

Apparently, forming that into a coherent thought seems to have done it; it catches Spock’s attention. Jim? he asks. Why are you scared?

Jim would answer, he totally would, but the guy is talking again, and he’s distracted. “You are such a pain in my ass,” he’s saying - really, his voice is more of a hiss, now, like the lizards that abandoned them. At least that part of their plan went right. He squeezes harder on Jim’s shoulder, so tightly he can almost feel the bones in his it grinding together. He raises his hand and practically drags Jim to his feet, only by the muscles in his shoulder and neck. “I’m started to get really pissed off.”

Jim doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t bite back a retort; the dull ache from the man’s grasp is biting deeper into his flesh, permeating as deep as his bones. There’s going to be a spectacular bruise there tomorrow - if he’s here for tomorrow, that is, which is seeming more and more unlikely by the second.

Jim? Spock asks again, worried. What is happening? What is - oh.

As the man draws him up to eye level, Jim realizes the guy’s still got the sharp thing in his hand. Gandalf’s hefting it, ready to jab, and, well - this is it, then. He’s going to die bleeding out on the floor of a fake Thai temple, just so some vampires can gorge themselves on his blood. He only hopes Spock has the sense to run before the man gets done with him - 

No.

It’s sent through their bond, and it’s so strong, Jim almost mistakes it for his own thoughts. No, Spock thinks, and his emotions rise to the surface so suddenly and so strongly that Jim feels like he’s drowning in them as they wash over his mind, wave after wave after wave.

Protectiveness, on the top, predominant, and growling in his chest; anger at the man who is holding him here; worry for Jim, there’s a lot of that, threaded through like it’s a part of him; and, spread evenly through it all, the fuel for the fire, is the wanting - it’s spread through his veins, and it’s the fire Jim felt a week ago when Spock linked their minds together, a moment ago when he thought of Gandalf young, a dozen snippets when Jim did something like lick his lips or say something illogical, and it’s so hot - 

\- Spock.

Jim can see what Spock is doing like he’s the one moving; like he’s the one who lets the emotions cover him in a wave and just - succumbs. There’s a whirl of movement as Spock whips around into a roundhouse kick, hitting the remaining sister right in stomach, and when she doubles over, he snatches the second knife from the table and drives it into the side of her neck. She falls to the floor, feeble hands reaching up to staunch the bleeding and failing, of course.

Of course.

“You’re going to pay for this,” the man informs Jim, a malicious glint in his eye. It’s like he can’t hear the gargling of his sister from behind him, the sound of her drowning in her own blood. “You just -”

And then Spock is behind him - Spock, whose veins are burning, and whose thoughts are running Jim, Jim, Jim, and who is so transparent right now, so transparent; his hand clamps down on the man’s shoulders, stronger then the hold Gandalf has on Jim, stronger then everything in the world but Jim and Spock’s link and Spock’s fire, and for a second everything is suspended.

“You will not hurt my mate.”

It is Spock’s voice, but not Spock’s voice; it’s deep and low and guttural and doesn’t sound like it’s spoken on any conscious thought from Spock, and his mind seems to show the same thing, the trail of his thoughts that Jim is intercepting.

The man’s eyes have gone wide with fear, but there is a determination there - the determination of a man who knows he is about to die, the determination of a man who wants to accomplish one last thing before it happens. And so, even as Spock clenches a fist and moves for the man’s stomach - no doubt to deliver a blow that will shift his organs, rupture his skin, send him flying backwards - the man moves for Jim’s.

The knife embeds itself halfway up the blade, so it’s in but not really in at all, and it burns - not the same as Spock’s burn, but just as strong. The wave of pain in Jim’s mind is only overshadowed by the rush of anger Spock feels towards the man, the pain, like Jim’s injuries are his own - or, worse, like Jim’s injuries are his fault. As Jim crumples to the floor, he’s vaguely aware of Spock doing something - he doesn’t know what it is, because both their eyes are clouded by blood. For him, it’s his own. For Spock, it’s that of the man in front of him.

What Jim can see, though, through his blood-hazed eyes, is the black box - the one sitting right in front of him, the controls in easy reach. There’s just one light, now, just one thing standing in their way. Slowly, with shaking hands, he reaches out and flicks the last switch. Disconnects the last wire. Watches as the light blinks and blinks and blinks - and blinks out.

He can do it in his sleep, and he can apparently also do it while he’s dying. Something to add to his resume.   
He reaches down weakly for the communicator in his belt; flicks the on switch and hears it immediately roar to life, the static overcoming everything. From beside him, there is a spatter of blood; he turns his head enough to see the man fall limp to the floor, a smile drawn across his throat in red.

Immediately, Spock drops to his knees beside Jim as he coughs, weakly. Comm, he thinks, because he could talk but it would take too much effort. Bones would be proud, he thinks, conserving energy like that. That’s what he always tells Jim to do when he’s got a life-threatening injury, after all - lie back and stop moving and shut up.

Spock reaches for the instrument, flicks it open and holds it up to his mouth. “Commander Spock to Enterprise.”

Finally, finally, the line flickers to life. “Commander Spock! Mr. Scott here - can I say how good it is to hear your voice?”

“Captain Kirk is critically injured,” Spock snaps. The pulsing waves of protectiveness emanating off of him are almost reassuring to Jim, now. Now that his own blood is pulsing out of him at the same rate. “Have Doctor McCoy on stand-by, beam-up for two immediately.”

“Aye, sir!”

The familiar feeling of de-materialization hits Jim then. Spock is still kneeling over him, even as their atoms dissolve, and his face is a mask of concern - it’s blatant, not hidden at all. Jim would think he would be hiding it, for the sake of the crew and his own dignity, but he does not seem to want to bother. His mind is a haze of blood and lust, in a thousand different combinations, and Jim wants to reassure him.

It’ll be okay, Spock, Jim thinks. He tries to convey sincerity as the world starts to fade around him - whether from transport or blood-loss, he doesn’t know. Hopefully the former.

Jim - 

Spock’s hand is lying beside Jim’s; shakily, Jim lays his over it. After a moment of hesitation, Spock winds their fingers together.

It’ll be okay.

And then they’re on the Enterprise; Jim’s lying on the transporter pad, and Spock is bent over him. There’s light, here, light everywhere, and white and metal, and there’s cool. It seems to want to lull his body into sleep, if he wasn’t already headed there. Bones is there, he’s pretty sure, and he’s not sure if he can feel his presence or see it or hear it - but he’s there, rushing towards him, bending on his other side. And Spock - just growled, didn’t he? Jim thinks he just growled, but then, what does he know? And, either way, it doesn’t matter what sound Spock makes, because he doesn’t move from Jim’s side; doesn’t pull his hand form Jim’s.

And Jim lets his eyes close.

\- part viii - 

Spock has always been aware of the inevitability of his time. 

Despite his mixed heritage, there was no doubt, from the moment he was born and first scanned by hospital tricorders, that his biology was supremely Vulcan. There was some speculation to the causes of it - whether it was by chance, from his genes, whether it would have been different if he were female, whether he would slowly grow into a more human person. He did, actually, but it wasn’t for the reasons his doctors had suggested. He was bonded with T’Pring at the age of seven, with the understanding that their times would, over the years, synchronize, so that when they turned thirty and became true adults, they could assist in the continuation of their species.

Spock has learned plenty about pon farr; when he was a child, he endured the same reproductive health classes as his peers, did his obligatory five-page essay on maintaining morality and sanity when the blood fever began. His father even had a conversation with him about it when he asked. It was albeit awkward; his mother was hovering in the corner of his office, long-sleeves drawn down as far as they could go. Spock still saw the bruises on her wrists, though, and the ones pressed into her collarbones. 

The point is, however, that Spock knows a lot about pon farr, and yet he did not recognize its symptoms when they gripped hold of him. Perhaps he would have, if he had been anticipating them. However, it is not yet his time. He should have another three years, at least - that is what the charts say, the ones Dr. M’Benga has carefully compiled, monitoring his adrenaline spikes, sleep patterns, and, despite Spock’s protest at the qualitative variable being included, his lust. It is perhaps logical reasoning, and it is what he will present to Dr. McCoy and Jim when they, inevitably and likely angrily, confront him about his obliviousness. However, Spock does not believe that is the truth - or at least, not all of it. If was more his unwillingness to accept what was happening - and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Later, Spock will ruminate over why it happened when it did, and he will not say it is their destiny, or fate, like Jim claims. Nor, however, will he say it is a coincidence. After the destruction of his planet, everyone in his species was on the edge - the urge to repopulate, so instinctual and deeply buried, was rising to the surface under the threat to their survival. Mates as young as twenty-one and twenty-two were going into heat, their bodies searching for a trigger for the fever, and finding it, in each other. Spock’s body had done the same; he, however, had found more then one. There was the planet that was as hot and dry as Vulcan, the one that had evoked memories of his home world; there was his probably necessary protective nature towards Jim, like a Vulcan male protects his mate; and there was his isolation with him, in the sands of the desert. It was reminiscent of the van-kal t’telan; it was natural that Spock might be triggered.

And as Jim might say: and, boy, was he triggered.

When they land on the transporter pad, Spock is still under the influence of the rage. Beneath him lies Jim, fading out of consciousness with blood seeping out from beneath his and Spock's intertwined fingers, pressed to his stomach. The waves of overpowering anger Spock feels for the mad who did this - he wants to annihilate him, tear him limb from limb. It is only overshadowed by his worry. Jim has survived many things, Spock knows, but he cannot conclude Jim will survive these injuries solely on the basis of his past injuries. 

This is his mate - his cannot die.

And yet - when Doctor McCoy takes the first step towards Jim, Spock snarls at him. Doctor McCoy's brow furrows and he halts in place as the rest of the medical team startles backward.

"What's wrong with you?" Doctor McCoy asks, looking bewildered. Spock narrows his eyes, baring his teeth at them - all of them. It's a warning. "Damnit, you have to let me get to him!"

Of course, the logical part of Spock's mind is telling him that Doctor McCoy is right, and he must cease his actions at once; he must let Doctor McCoy close enough to examine and treat Jim, at least if Jim is to have any chance to survive. His logic, however, has easily been overshadowed by the rage of the plak tow - the blood fever burning through his veins. Doctor McCoy tries to step forward again, and even as Spock tries to fight himself, he hears himself growl. Doctor McCoy frowns, brow furrowing, his bewilderment transforming into anger. It only feeds Spock's fire.

A young med-bay intern who had just rushed into the transport room tries to come up to Jim where he lies on the transport pad, so focused she does not seem to notice the situation around her. Spock snarls at her as she draws closer, and she flinches but does not change her course, so when she stops beside them, Spock pushes the gurney back, growling low in his chest. Her face is white, but with gauze in one hand she still tries to make it to Jim - and so Spock shoves her back with a hand to her solar plexus. She stumbles back against the wall of the transporter. She's not injured, but she doesn't try again. 

"Damnit, Spock, what is wrong with you?" McCoy snarls, trying to take a step forward. Spock bares his teeth, and it's a feral motion, feels simultaneously illogical and unnecessary, but it gets McCoy to stop. "What are you doing? Jim's dying, damnit!"

That breaks through to Spock, if nothing else, and he looks down at his hands. Jim’s eyes are fluttering closed, and his blood loss is clearly reached a lethal level for humans. Spock’s mind is practically screaming at him to hand Jim over to Doctor McCoy, and yet he cannot bring himself to do it. Doctor McCoy is a challenger - to hand over Jim would be to hand over the most beautiful, most wonderful thing he has ever touched; he would not more hand Jim over then concede a fight to one of Jim’s champions. Jim is his.

“Spock.” This voice is quieter, more reassuring then Doctor McCoy’s. Spock turns his head towards it and finds it belongs to Doctor M’Benga; he’s standing next to Doctor McCoy, but not close enough that Spock perceives them as a pack, a threat. “We will not hurt him.” This is not the point that matters to Spock - he growls his frustration. He understands that they will not hurt Jim, but he needs to know they will not take him from him. “Spock,” Doctor M’Benga says again, and his voice is more hurried, now, more rushed. “Jim will die if you do not let us treat him.” A beat of silence. “Spock, please - we will not take him from you. We are not challengers, we are not a threat.”

Spock considers him a moment; his eyes appear sincere, behind the obvious fear of Spock. Spock glances down at his hands, then, and at the blood between his fingers; at Jim’s eyes, which are now closed, even if Spock can still hear his pulse. He will not last much longer.

Squatting, he moves back from the body. He keeps one of his hands interlocked with Jim’s, but the second he steps back, Doctor McCoy is moving forward, dragging the stretcher with him. “Damn hobgoblin,” he mutters, and his tone is not one of playful frustration but genuine anger. Spock watches him closely as he tends to Spock’s mate. “Goddamn it, Jim, what is wrong with you?”   
The nurses seem wary of approaching Spock after his actions towards their colleague, and so they end up staying clear of Jim as well. Spock will punish himself for this fact later - he will regret both their hurt feelings and the negative effect this likely had on Jim’s health - but he does not have time, now. He watches Doctor McCoy closely, aware of Doctor M’Benga’s eyes on him; once, Doctor McCoy’s hands stray too close to Jim’s face. Spock growls, a warning, but Doctor McCoy does not seem effected. He sends Spock a narrow-eyed glare.  
 “I’m going to kill you for this,” he says. “After we figure out what the hell is wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill you.”   
It is a threat, but Spock does not have time to perceive it as such; his attention is suddenly drawn to the two male medics lifting Jim onto the newly-cleared stretcher. They send Spock cautious looks every few seconds - he has yet to let go of Jim’s hand. Suddenly, something sharp jabs into his neck, hard. Spock abruptly finds himself unable to stand properly; he turns his head to find Doctor M’Benga standing behind him, a hypospray in the hand extended down towards Spock’s neck, and an unapologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” he says, “but we need to sedate you until we can get the fever under control.”

For a moment, Spock feels betrayed - by what, he does not know. Perhaps he feels betrayed by Doctor M’Benga, a man who had many times professed himself to be Spock’s friend, and a man whom Spock had trusted; a man who is now revealing one of his greatest weaknesses to the entire transport room; a man who is now allowing Jim to be pushed away by men who could easily become Jim’s challenger; a man who is likely not only allowing but advising the separation of he and Jim, when Jim is dying.

He world goes black and he crumples to the floor before he can figure it out.

-

Spock wakes up in sickbay with a pounding headache, and fire burning under the surface of his skin.

It takes Spock several long moments to assess the state of both his body and mind, and another long minute thereafter to recall the events of his last hours of consciousness. First to surface is the hazy memory of the blood fever, triggered by the attack in the jungle. It's followed by the rebounding of the Enterprise, his threatening of Doctor McCoy. He vaguely recollects the use of a hypospray. Then his memories and his control dissolve, and there is only the warring of his thoughts, logic and lust opposing each other in equal measures. For once, his human half was proving to be more steady and reliable.

Spock takes a deep breath now, inhaling the scent of clean linen and antiseptic. It is clinical, unsettling, and stings the inside of his nostrils with the emptiness. He takes another deep breath. 

He can still feel Jim at the back of his mind, his presence strong and impossible to ignore. Spock does not know if this is a positive sign or not. Certainly it cannot be fully negative - after all, Jim’s very presence indicates his well-being, and through their link Spock can hear his heartbeat, his breathing, the low tenor of his unconscious thoughts (no voices, because he is sleeping; nothing that would distract Spock). He is injured, but he will recover. That much, at least, is undeniable. However - 

His mate. That is what Spock had called Jim, when the plak tow had pulled him under. His mate. He had acted as though Jim were his bondmate, chosen for him since birth, as though this mental link in their minds had taken the place of Spock’s shattered relationship with T’Pring. How could his mind have mistaken a bond for a link? It is like confusing an ember for a forest fire; they are the same, yes, but so, so different. How could his control have slipped so far that his mind saw it fit to treat Jim like his mate? He is a friend, yes, and perhaps the object of Spock’s ill-conceived affections, but they are not bonded. Spock will hold off examining it for now, but when he returns to his quarters, he must meditate. He will seek out the most painless way to sever it then.

Of course, the damage has already been done, but Spock prefers not to think of that. It feels too much like complying to the inevitable, the same thing he had counseled Jim against only a few days ago. Still, he will seek Jim in the heat of his pon farr - but maybe the severance can buy him enough time to return to New Vulcan before his real time begins, before he displays an additional untoward emotion towards his Captain, soon enough that the healers might be able to save his mind.

He can only hope. The thought seems so fickle, and so undoubtedly human, that it propels Spock into a sitting position, his eyes opening.

The curtains have not been drawn around his bed, and so Spock is afforded an unhindered view of sickbay - unhindered, that is, but for the drapes around a single bed in the corner. Jim. Spock knows this is who must occupy the bed; the knowledge makes him, for a brief moment, extraordinarily grateful to Doctor M’Benga. For it must have been Doctor M’Benga who granted him this seemingly small favor - he is the only one who would know how Spock’s blood would be boiling, how it would flare to almost unbearable levels at the sight of Jim’s face.

Spock throws the thin blankets off of his legs, swinging them over the edge of his biobed and ignoring the twinge in his lower back - muscle exertion, or soreness from staying in one position for too long. He is adequately dressed, in his Starfleet issue sickbay coveralls, and so he pushes himself to his feet, carefully controlling the blood that rushes to his head.

“Where do you think you’re going?”   
Spock turns his head and Doctor M’Benga is watching him, clipboard in hand and eyebrows raised. Behind him, the door to the sickbay office stands ajar.

“I must go meditate,” Spock replies, and his voice betrays no hint of his impatience. It has returned to it’s careful regulated state, the one he maintains with everyone - aside from, possibly, Jim.

“Spock, I haven’t cleared you for -”

“I apologize for interrupting you, Doctor,” Spock says smoothly, cutting Doctor M’Benga off mid-sentence, “but the plak tow is making it difficult for me to concentrate.” There is a sense of aggression growing in his chest, seeking to be dissipated by fight, but it is hard to focus on repressing it. There are so many things he needs to repress. His veins are itching, persistently and in a way he has never felt before, and it is highly distracting. More then highly distracting - it is maddening. He cannot imagine this feeling continuing forever, never acquiring release, forced to live your life with this thrum of energy in you. He can see how it could drive someone crazy.

Doctor M’Benga seems to hesitate. “Spock -”

“My time is almost upon me,” Spock says, once more interrupting him. There is a hint of urgency in his voice that he would attempt to repress if not for the fact it will likely assist him in his conversation with Doctor M’Benga. “My blood burns. I must go meditate.” He puts more emphasis on the word then strictly required, but it seems to make Doctor M’Benga pause.

He considers Spock for a long moment. “I want reports, Spock,” he says finally. “I know there’s a tricorder in your room. When you take breaks from meditating, I want you to send over a reading. With some help, I might be able to compile something to counteract your symptoms.”

This is impossible, Spock knows; for many years, it was the chief inquiry of the Vulcan Science Academy, but even with all their funding and time, a cure was never located. And besides, pon farr is a primarily telepathic ailment, which means that without telepathy, it cannot be cured. No matter how hard the Doctor tries.

Nevertheless, Spock decides to humor him. “I will send you these reports,” Spock says. “However: as you are well aware, Vulcan meditation sessions can span, without pause, over several days. I must warn you that it may be quite some time before I am able to contact you.”

Doctor M’Benga waves a hand. “Whenever you can, Spock,” he says. “I don’t want to mess up your meditation. I just want the information. I just - want to help you, that’s all.”   
Spock inclines his head, ignoring the obvious placating tone to his words. “Of course, Doctor.” He has no intentions to send any reports. “If you may excuse me.” Doctor M’Benga’s gaze follows him out of the room, and Spock feels oddly like something under a microscope, being examined. It is an uncomfortable feeling, and he is relieved when the doors to the turbolift slide shut behind him, leaving him isolated. He slumps, so slightly that most humans likely would not notice, against the lift’s cool white walls.

He was never really injured on the planet, but he still went several weeks without proper nutrition or sleep, and it has worn his body down. Meditation would be a welcome respite from the long days. It's strange, how he can be so exhausted and yet so stimulated at the same time.

By the time Spock makes it back to his own quarters, his fever has become worse; he longer he is conscious, the more aroused he seems to become. The constant glances from crew members in particular seem to be putting him on edge. Every time someone looks at him, he imagines taking Jim in front of them, proving that Jim is his and his alone, and that they cannot have him. That he - 

It takes more effort then it should to push the illogical thoughts from his mind. He and Jim would never do that. He is being ridiculous.

He keys in his code impatiently, but his fingers are shaking and his first attempt is unsuccessful. His whole body is vibrating, and he feels the irrepressible need for movement, for battle, for intercourse, for something, something other then hours spent in the lotus position, uselessly attempting to regain some form of order to his thoughts. 

As the doors to his quarters finally slide open, he indulges himself; his first makes contact with the wall opposite him, splitting the skin between his knuckles. It does not help.

He growls.

Immediately afterwards, he wonders what he’s done - how can this be happening to him? He sounds like an uncontrollable beast. This is a Vulcan’s worst nightmare, this rebellion against the entire basis of their upbringing. He needs to meditate, immediately. He stalks over to his mat and forces himself into the customary position, ignoring the energy in his limbs. Closing his eyes, he tries to focus on the feel of his skin, the smooth mat under his feet and his calves. Cool, smooth, inanimate; he can hear dull voices muffled by the walls, clatters that echo through the body of the Enterprise. He feels the vibration of her engines in his skin, so familiar and welcoming, like home, like Jim - 

He slides into his mind easily and naturally, letting the physical world fall away. Momentarily, he is shocked when he enters it - in only two weeks, it has changed so much that it would be unrecognizable to Spock, were it not his own. The cool darkness that usually comprises of his thoughts has been replaced by a lake of red flame, raging emotions surrounding him on all sides. Fire, blood, and lust. Shame, for a Vulcan.

The heat, in the physical sense, is almost unbearable. It occurs to Spock that maybe that this is how Jim had felt, burning on the planet. Jim, burning so close to Spock - Surak, even Jim's name is enough to send him into the start of a frenzy. Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim, and the flames rise as high as a skyscraper, burn as hot as a star.

Maybe Spock was not being entirely truthful when he told Jim that Vulcans were not poets.

He seeks out the spot in his mind where he knows Jim will be.

He finds it easily; among the lake of fire, it is a cool point, an oasis in a desert. And Spock is speaking in poetry, again, as though that will make the loss of his sanity any more bearable, as though that brings some romance to the bond he has forced upon Jim. Jim. Jim is not thinking anything, right now - sleeping, dreamlessly. Spock is thankful for that, at least. 

When Jim wakes, Spock will need to sever their link. The thought sends an unpleasant shiver down Spock’s spine, it feels so wrong. Jim does not want this bond, Spock reminds himself. He will not force Jim into anything. He will not rape Jim. He would never rape Jim, not matter what the situation. Protecting Jim seems more instinctual then his own mating drive.

Spock is about to retract himself from Jim’s mind when something draws his attention - the mental link between them has not been affected by the fire. Or, no, that’s not entirely true. It has been affected, but not like Spock would expect. Unlike the rest of Spock’s mind, the flames have not begun to degrade it, nor has it started to burn from the heat. Spock would attribute that to Jim’s control over it if it weren’t for the fact it’s strengthened - like it is feeding off of Spock’s lack of control. Or his arousal. Curious, Spock inspects it further. 

It does not take him long to realize that he was right - the link is, in fact, using Spock’s emotions to strengthen itself. Most curious for such a shallow link. It is almost acting like a deeper connection, like the ones Spock had had with his parents. Strengthening itself in Spock’s absence, in Jim’s absence, almost like - 

The realization hits Spock suddenly, like a freight train, and he immediately feels sick to his stomach.

His link with Jim is not merely a link. It is the beginnings of a martial bond.

-

Spock does not know what to do.

He is confused: he doesn’t understand how he could have bonded with Jim, how it could have passed his notice, how he could have gone into pon farr three years early. Why did his mind attach itself to Jim, in such a permanent bond? It should require the presiding of a Vulcan elder, or, at the very least, an experienced mind healer. None of it makes sense.

Spock calls his counterpart.

He considers doing so carefully beforehand; while the conversation would likely be enlightening and as such beneficial, there is also the possibility it could create more ripples through space, further altering their dimension from the prime universe. But then it’s already been altered - the Narada incident changed the entire course of history as they knew it, and over time, the changes will only become more pronounced.

He paces back and forth while he waits for Ambassador Spock to answer, hands held loosely behind his back. The pose is meant to represent utter control, ironic in his circumstance.

Finally, Ambassador Spock answers, and Spock ceases in his pacing, turning towards the view screen. A faint expression of surprise flickers across Ambassador Spock’s face as he takes in his younger counterpart; curious, how many emotions he displays on his facial features. Surely a result of his extended travels with humans, nothing more. Spock should not feel this anger - or is it jealousy?

“Ambassador Spock,” Spock says formally, inclining his head, and Ambassador Spock does the same.  
 “Commander Spock,” he says. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you. I was expecting your Captain.”   
For a moment, Spock misinterprets his words, thinking he means Jim had promised to contact him, and a wave of jealousy almost overcomes him. This is his Jim, not the Ambassador’s; only he is allowed to love this Jim. Then a wave of clarity hits him and he remembers that Jim is still sleeping. Ambassador Spock is only expressing his surprise that Spock was hailing him. 

The lapse in Spock’s judgement is momentary, but it’s enough for Ambassador Spock to notice the resulting emotions that flicker across Spock’s face. The Ambassador’s expression tightens. “Ah, Spock,” he says, almost sadly and certainly with a resigned tone. “I see you have entered the plak tow.”

“Did this happen in your universe?” Spock asks without thinking. If the Ambassador knew what would happen to Spock, he could help him, explain the things that Spock did not understand, advise him on what to do next. “Did you - did you choose your own mate?”

“Eventually,” Ambassador Spock said, and a flare of irrepressible hope rose in Spock’s chest. “But the onset of my first pon farr occurred when I was still bonded with T’Pring, three years into your future.” 

Spock considers this information, fingers clenching around each other. “And she was your bondmate,” he says, but Ambassador Spock shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “she induced the kal-if-fee, as was her right. Her champion was a difficult one for myself to beat, and I shall not elaborate on that point other then to say that the battle was sufficient in suppressing my blood fever.”   
“I - see,” Spock says. Suddenly, his entire conversation with Ambassador Spock seems ill-advised. He clearly cannot help Spock, but every moment longer they converse they risk conveying universe-altering information. “I thank you for your time, Ambassador Spock. I shall take my leave, now -”   
“Spock,” Ambassador Spock interrupts him. “Who have you chosen as your mate?”

Spock hesitates to reply, considering paradoxes and the space time continuum, but finally decides that it can’t effect Ambassador Spock too much. He is separated from his universe, after all. “I have bonded with my captain.”   
Ambassador Spock’s demeanor seems to shift; some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and a few of the lines on his face smooth out. “I feel I should congratulate you,” he says, and then he takes in Spock’s expression. He frowns. “But this troubles you,” he says, and Spock nods. “Why?”

“I was - the situation is complicated,” Spock says, “and hard to describe.”

“As humans might say: try me.”   
Spock almost sighs with resignation. “When I created the bond with Jim - I did not realize I was doing so.”   
Ambassador Spock raises a single eyebrow. “It was - unintentional?”

Spock nods. “Affirmative. The circumstances were - extenuating, but suffice it to say that I was merely attempting to create a mental link between us. However, it somehow took root, and created a bond.”

A look of realization dawns on Ambassador Spock’s face, and it’s quickly followed by remorse - or regret, or sadness. “Spock,” he says, “I am afraid I might know what is happening - and I may have something to do with it.”

“Explain,” Spock says tersely.

“I have already informed you that I went through my first pon farr when I was bonded with T’Pring,” Ambassador Spock says, and Spock thinks yes, yes, please go on. Usually, he is grateful for the general thoroughness of Vulcans, even it if means it takes them longer to explain themselves. However, now, he just wishes Ambassador Spock would get to his point. “When my second pon farr approached, however, I needed a mate, and so Jim and I bonded. Again, I will not elaborate on the circumstances, but we became true t’hy’la.”

“T’hy’la,” Spock repeats, distracted for a moment, before he shakes his head, focusing again. “I do not understand how this effects my current situation.”

“As you very well know, Spock,” Ambassador Spock says, “T’hy’la bonds are the deepest rooted of all mental links. I have long suspected I passed some echo of this onto Jim, when I mind-melded with him months ago on Delta Vega.” He shifts in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his hands in front of him. He is not looking Spock in the eye. “It would only take a slightly mispronunciation and that echo for your mind to solidify the link into a bond.”

Spock is silent for a moment as he processes the information. “We are bonded,” he says, “because you were bonded with your Jim Kirk?”

Ambassador Spock inclines his head. “Yes, the believe that would be the most succinct way of putting it.” 

“Is there anything that can be done?” Spock asks. “Any way to - break the bond?”

Ambassador Spock frowns. “I believe I have lost you again,” he says. Before Spock can ask for clarification on the human idiom, Ambassador Spock continues, “Why would you want to break your bond with Jim? It is a t’hy’la bond - and in times such as these, you cannot count on finding another bond here on New Vulcan.”   
“You know that the bond was unintentional,” Spock says, “and Jim is still not aware of it. I wish to keep it this way. We are not - Jim and I are not romantically involved, and I fear the events in our universe have prevented him from ever seeing me in such a matter.”   
“You will not know until you try,” Ambassador Spock says. He doesn’t sound reprimanding, as Spock would have expected - merely curious, and considering.

“I am aware of this,” Spock says. “However, you know Jim almost as well as I do, and you know that if he were aware of this information, he would insist on bonding with me - even if he did not desire me.”  Ambassador Spock inclines his head. “This is true.”

“I have no wish to be with Jim when it is against his will or desires,” Spock said, then added a second later, “I would not force him into anything.”   
Ambassador Spock seems to accept this. “I never said you would,” he says. There is a heavy moment of silence between them, that seems to carry some hidden meaning even if Spock cannot identify it. Then Ambassador Spock says, “If this is your choice, you will need to find an alternative option. Since you initiated the bond, you cannot participate in the kal-if-fee, but if you return to New Vulcan you may find the healers able to assist you.”

“Our ship is routed for the Dtarrah Quadrant, I do not -”

“I can guarantee your Captain would reroute the ship for this,” Ambassador Spock says, “and it would be entirely regulation for him to do so. May I remind you of the citizen’s emergency clause, regulation seven-zero-two?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”   
“You should return to New Vulcan with all possible haste - the longer the blood fever rages, the harder it becomes to suppress.” Ambassador Spock seems to hesitate now. “And one more thing, Spock,” he says. “I am well aware that our universes are not the same, but there have been mirrored situations in both of them - more then either of us had expected.” Spock nods. “I was Jim’s First Officer for many years on the Enterprise, and we went on many missions; I would not say I saved Jim’s life an excessive number of times, but he was placed in mortal peril more then I would like to consider, and besides Doctor McCoy, I was likely one of the most instrumental men in getting him out of it.” Ambassador Spock pauses. “If you choose to go through with this line of action, you must confirm that someone will be willing to take up these actions in your stead - and save Jim when you cannot.”   
Spock badly wants to take him up on the offer - he must protect Jim. He knows this both logically and in his blood; it is the one thing his warring mind seems to agree on, at the moment. “And this would not disrupt the space-time continuum?”

A flicker of a smile passes across Ambassador Spock’s lips, but it looks more bitter then joyful. “Disruption of the space-time continuum is what put you in this state,” he points out. “Think of this simply as - correcting a wrong.”   
Spock twists his fingers where they are intertwined behind his back. “Of course, Ambassador,” he says. “I shall defer to your experience and advice. Tell me what I must do.”

-

In one week’s time, with or without a mate, Spock will descend into the final stage of pon farr. 

It is a fact Spock is forced to consider after he ends his call with Ambassador Spock. Especially considering the information Ambassador Spock had given him. One week until Spock looses control of his body and mind, looses his ability to speak or move of his own volition. At that point, all that will be left is the blood fever, and it won’t stop until Spock takes a mate - or dies.

He spends a long time cocooned in his mind after he discovers the truth of his bond with Jim; he needs to digest the information he has received before he can do anything about it.

It only feels like Spock meditates for a few hours, but when he finally surfaces, he finds a full day has passed. His body aches from staying in the same position for too long, though the pon farr has subdued his appetite. He pushes himself to his feet, moving towards the computer. Perhaps he should contact Doctor M’Benga, considering the period of time he’s been in his quarters, but he does not intend too. Instead, he sits down at his desk, activates his console, and opens up a channel to the bridge.

It would be more efficient to contact Navigation directly, Spock knows that. But he does not trust his control over himself, and he is unsure how he may react to seeing another male at this stage in his time. Nyota, however, is much less likely to anger him.

A moment after he hails her, her face appears on the screen, flickering for a moment before it solidifies. She looks tired, and the corners of her mouth are worn with more predominant wrinkles then Spock has ever seen there. Still, she seems to brighten when she sees Spock.

“Spock!” she says, sounding both surprised and increasingly pleased. In the view screen, Spock sees a few ensigns turn in her direction, and for a moment he feels guilty for not contacting her sooner - she is his closest and oldest friend, after all, and he has no doubt she was worried about him after his stranding. 

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Spock says, carefully professional. He thinks she can see through his facade, though, because her smile fades a bit as she takes in the look on his face. She glances over her shoulder once, confirming that her colleagues have returned to their work and are indeed otherwise occupied, before she leans in closer to her monitor. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly, voice just loud enough for Spock to hear. “Are you okay? You look...”

“I am fine, Lieutenant,” Spock says smoothly. “I merely contacted you to inform you that we must make a change in course.”

Nyota’s flickering expression turns into a frown. “What?” she asks. “Why?” Her frown fades into something resembling anger, partially repressed. “Did Starfleet give us another mission?”   
“Negative,” Spock says, but Nyota continues on as if he had not spoken.  
 “Because they told us they weren’t going to give us any more away missions after what happened, Hikaru made them promise -”

“Lieutenant,” Spock says, but she keeps talking.

“ - and they did, they said they were sorry about what happened but I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them and - ”

“Nyota,” Spock says, and finally she ceases speaking. “Starfleet was not involved in the decision. It was one Captain Kirk and I made, prior to our beam-up to the Enterprise.”   
“Oh.” Nyota looks surprised. “Why didn’t you just contact Navigation, then?”

Spock cannot tell her the real reason, so he says, “It is a pressing matter, and I wished it to be conveyed to you with the urgency required.”   
“You’ve been awake for a day, Spock, if this is so urgent - ”

“Lieutenant,” Spock says again, and again she closes her mouth. “Other matters require my attention. We must continue with due haste.”   
“Of course,” Nyota says, finally seeming to regain some of her lost professionalism and composure. Her back straightens in her chair as she leans away from her screen, once again speaking at a normal volume. “What is it, Commander?”  
 “The ship needs to be rerouted to New Vulcan,” Spock says. Nyota’s expression only flickers for a moment before she nods. “I require you to inform Acting Captain Sulu of this, as well as the Navigation Department. If either of them requires an explanation, please inform them of mine and Captain Kirk’s discussion on the matter. If necessary, you can cite a citizen’s emergency, regulation seven-zero-two.”

Nyota looks like she wants to ask more, but then someone sneezes from behind her - unintentional, and unrelated, but it’s followed by a chorus of bless you’s, and the voices seem to remind her this is not the appropriate place. She closes her partly-open mouth, swallows, and nods. “Of course, Commander.”   
“Thank you, Nyota,” Spock says, allows some of his carefully constructed distance to slip with her name. He ends the call before hers can do the same.

-

Three days later, Jim wakes up.

Spock feels it the moment he does; one moment, Jim's thoughts are unconscious and the next Jim's voice is in his mind, loud and disoriented. White, brightness, lumpy pillows. Even just Jim's thoughts as he takes in his surroundings is overwhelming for Spock. Three days without it - three days he spent in half-controlled meditation, as the fires in his veins grew steadily brighter.

He wishes he could leave the bond open, but he knows he would not be able to bear hearing Jim's voice constantly. The last of his control would disappear, and he might do something like go find Jim and chase after him. Not to mention the fact that Jim would be able to hear everything that's going on in Spock's mind, be able to feel the same fires Spock had. He'd know how Spock felt about him and he'd feel the lust Spock was experiencing. Spock doesn't know what that would make Jim do, and he doesn't want to find out.

He blocks off the bond quickly, like walls slamming down on the connection. The silence from Jim's side of the bond makes his chest ache and his blood roar, and he immediately wishes to find whoever did this and - but, no, Spock did this, it was of his own volition. Spock forces himself to pour more energy into his shields, solidifying the somewhat shaky walls.

He cannot suppress the regret and the pain, but he has long since stopped attempting to. Four days until he arrives on New Vulcan. Four days until he succumbs to the final stage. 

He is counting down, and he does not know whether it is out of anticipation or dread.

-

Jim wakes up to the sound of beeping and Bones’ voice.

“Damn idiot,” Bones says as Jim blearily opens his eyes, the world around him coming into focus. Bright lights, white walls, starch linen and lumpy pillows. Definitely sickbay, then.

He’s pushing himself up on the pillows when he becomes aware of Spock in his mind. It’s almost foreign even though it’s been there for three weeks - or longer, he doesn’t know how long he’s been sleeping, hopefully not that long - and Jim catches a glimpse of Spock’s thoughts. Jim, awake, can’t let him see. None of them are directed towards him, and he’s still half asleep, so he doesn’t catch all of her words. He does, however, feel the heat and licking flames of fire before the walls snap down between them, cold and unrelenting.

The loss makes him feel sort of empty, but he pushes the thought away. It’s not like that. It’s just something Spock did to keep Jim alive, it’s not a representation of his affection, it doesn’t matter what he knows about bonds and mind-melds and their meaning to Vulcans. Spock doesn’t like him like that. He never has.

Jim actually feels like he has to drag himself out of his thoughts. He catches the end of Bones’ sentence, something about getting trapped in the desert with Pointy and asking to get stabbed in the stomach.

“It’s nice to see you too, Bones,” Jim responds, voice rasping. He swallows, swallows again, and realizes he’s thirsty. “Water?”

Bones helps him sit up, then passes him a cup from the bedside table - he used to try to hold it to Jim’s lips directly, but he learned his lesson after the first four times Jim knocked it out of his hands. Jim has learned his lesson, too; he drinks slowly, sipping instead of gulping like he wants to. The wall in his mind remains hard and unflinching, like a concrete wall.

“How is everyone?” Jim asks, after he’s drained the entire glass. Bones takes it from him, setting it back down on the bedside table. “Ship running okay? Anybody get hurt while I was gone?”

Bones raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. He looks rather passive-aggressive, Jim thinks. That can’t be good for his recovery. “The ship’s fine,” he says. “You damn idiot.”

“And Spock?”

Bones rolls his eyes. “I already said everyone was fine, didn’t I?” he says. He takes in Jim’s expression and sighs. “The green-blooded hobgoblin is fine. Good, even. Two weeks on a desert planet didn’t do anything to him - physically, he’s healthier then he was when he landed. Sit back, I’m not letting you get up.”

Jim slumps back a little against the pillows. “You were the one who said everyone was fine. I assumed that applied to me.” Bones shoots Jim a look and Jim smirks. It fades a little as he changes topics. “Where did Spock go, anyway? I mean, I didn’t think he’d be here, but he’s just usually - ” Bones raises his eyebrows. “Oh, shut up.”   
“Pointy’s off doing yoga to fix his shields,” Bones says, and when Jim raises an eyebrow waves a hand, dismissing. “Or meditating. Same thing, really. Both have got incense, right?”   
“I knew what you meant,” Jim says, “but why is he doing that instead of dealing with the Myatans? They’re probably throwing a shit-storm right now, right?”

“Well, you’d be right there,” Bones says. “We’ve got a whole panel of delegates dying to apologize for the accident. Told ‘em it was unnecessary, of course, but -”

“That’s what they told you?” he asks, disbelief quickly morphing into anger. “That they’re sorry?”

Bones looks alarmed. “Calm down, Jim, your heart rate is spiking -”

“I guess they thought Spock and I were idiots,” Jim says, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Or I they thought we were going to die or something, because even I don’t think they’d be stupid enough to assume we wouldn’t tell you what actually happened.”

“Jim, you need to lay back down.”

“They gave us the coordinates, Bones!” Jim exclaims, waving a hand and ignoring the twinge in his stomach. Bones gives him a stern look, and Jim sighs, trying to relax and failing miserably. “They gave us the coordinates for the middle of a jungle where there was an ambush waiting for us.”

“An ambush?”  
 “The whole thing was planned, Bones. They sent us as tributes.”   
“Tributes to who?”

Jim sighs, finally relaxing back into his pillows. Freaking out’s not going to help anything, he reminded himself. They waited while he slept, and they can wait a while longer. The Enterprise was already warping away from the planet, he could tell - five minutes or half an hour, it wouldn’t change anything either way. “Didn’t Spock tell you any of this?”

“Like I said, he’s meditating, has been since he woke up. Had his little nervous breakdown and then ran off to his rooms to hide - ”   
“Nervous breakdown? You said Spock was fine.”

Bones doesn’t even has the decency to look a little ashamed. “I said he was physically fine, I never said he was completely fine - ”

“Bones! Is he hurt? Is he going to be okay?”   
Bones sighs. “He’s - Doctor M’Benga knows more then I do - ”

“Bones,” Jim threatens. “I’m your senior officer, do I need to order you to tell me?”

“Technically - ”   
“Stop bickering,” Nurse Chapel says as she closes the office door behind her, clipboard in hand. She glances up at them, raising an eyebrow at their expressions. “What? It’s annoying.”   
“We’re annoying, more like Jim’s annoying,” Bones mutters, but Jim doesn’t retort, shaking his head and huffing.

“What’s wrong with Spock?” he asks, voice louder then Bones’.

“His shields were damaged,” Nurse Chapel says, walking over to the empty sickbay bed next to him and beginning to clear the patient information. “I’m not really sure what’s going on, but right now he needs the quiet time to meditate. Doctor M’Benga is handling it.”   
“Is he going to be okay?”   
“Like I said, Doctor M’Benga is handling it - ”   
“Then I want to speak with him,” Jim says. He has his Captain voice on, calm and collected to conceal his worried interior. “I want to know what’s wrong with Spock.”  “There’s such thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, you know,” Bones says, sounding annoyed. Chapel shoots him a look - something like ‘are-you-serious-we-agreed-to-stop-using-that-as-an-excuse-I-mean-we-never-actually-do-it-anyway-especially-not-with-these-two’. Bones shuts his mouth.

“Doctor M’Benga is resting right now,” Nurse Chapel says. “He was ending his shift when you and Spock came in, and he had to stay awake while Spock slept. He only just got off shift an hour ago; you’ll have to wait a few more hours to speak with him.”

“I need to -”   
“Jim, you need to lay down and calm down.”

Jim wants to protest, but he knows he’d look stupid and - god, this must be Spock’s influence on his mind - illogical. He shuts his mouth, clenching his jaw and nodding. “Fine,” he says, “but when he wakes up, you’ll tell me, so I can talk to him, right?”  
 Bones rolls his eyes, and Chapel answers. “Right,” she says. 

“Stop worrying about the hobgoblin,” Bones says. “You need to lay back down right now.”

“But - the Myatans,” Jim remembers, not moving to recline. “Spock’s meditating, you need a senior officer to deal with that.”   
“Uhura and Sulu have been dealing with them so far,” Bones says. “They can do it for another few hours.”

“Sulu, really? I mean someone who’s actually been trained in diplomacy.” He leans back against his pillows, though. “Open a hail to the bridge,” Jim says, “I want to talk to Uhura.”

-

Three days after he had woken up, and seven days after they got off the planet, Bones finally lets him out of Sickbay.

“I want the record to show that this is being done under duress,” Bones says, as Jim pulls his Command shirt over his head, covering the fresh scar on his stomach.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Come on, Bones,” he says. “I was healed before I even woke up. You knew that, too, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken me off the sedative. I’m fine.”   
“We may have healed you, but your body still needs rest.”  “Which it will get,” Jim says, “since I will be sitting in a chair, doing no physical activity whatsoever.”   
“You manage to turn arguing into a sport,” Bones grumbles, but he follows Jim as he makes his way towards the door.

“I’m touched, really,” Jim says as he steps out into the hallway, nodding at a passing crewman. She blushes pink, salutes, murmurs, “Captain.” It doesn’t do as much for him as it once would have.

Weird.

“Touched in the head, sure.”

“Touched that you think these abs come from arguing,” Jim corrects him, getting back on his train of thought as they enter the turbolift. “I mean, they must really look natural.”

“About as natural as Cadet Syfried’s breasts,” Bones says, and Jim laughs.

“Oh, those were good all right,” Jim says, still smiling widely. “Felt like fucking rocks in the sack, I’m telling you; really, how is it that it’s the twenty-fourth century and boob implants are still sub-par?”

The turbolift doors open, then, to the meeting room where Jim’ll be conferencing with the Myatans, and Jim falls silent, the smile fading off of his face. Uhura and Sulu are already sitting at the table, in the middle of an argument, it looks like, with the person on the videoscreen; it’s an old man who looks disturbingly similar to Gandalf.

“We know that’s not true, our Captain has already informed us -”

“I don’t care what your Captain has informed you; this is the truth, nothing more.” The old man narrows his eyes, looking down over his nose at Sulu. “And, frankly, we find this offensive. Your insistence of these lies will not be beneficial for negotiations.”

Sulu’s jaw clenches, and he looks like he’s going to snap and yell something at the man - probably something like fuck you and your government, we don’t care about negotiations with you - and so Jim steps in before he can.

“Ambassador,” he says, and is pleasantly surprised to see the man go a little pale. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to call you back.”   
“Fine,” the man says, trying for terse but coming off shaky. Jim ends the con, and the screen blinks black.

“Captain,” Sulu says, rising from his seat. Uhura remains seated, picking up and padd and flicking to the next page. The beginnings of their treaty, Jim knows; they’d been discussing it over their hails.

“Lieutenant,” Jim says. He gives Sulu a long look, taking in his sweaty palms and the line of his shoulders. “How long have you been in here?”

“Three hours, sir,” he says.

“Who’s standing in for you at the helm?”   
“Ensign Smith,” Sulu says.

“I think it’s high time you had a break, then,” Jim says, and Sulu’s shoulders slump with relief. “Chekov’s probably going crazy with boredom; better go keep him company.”   
“Thank you, Captain,” Sulu says, starting for the door. Halfway there, he pauses, turns back. “Good luck,” he says, and Jim nods to him as he disappears out the door.

“So,” Jim says after a moment, taking the seat Sulu had vacated. “What’ve we got here?”

“A mess,” Uhura says. “You haven’t missed much; that was the new ambassador, the guy we were talking with left; they said he wasn’t feeling well, but I think he was just getting nervous.” She sighs, flicking to the next page of the document. “They’re breaking a dozen rules here, and normally that would mean compromising, but they won’t admit that they did it, which is just a big issue because they have delithium, even if it’s small supplies, which means we can’t fight with them like we usually would - “

“Maybe you should get a federation ambassador out here,” Bones suggests, coming to stand beside Jim. Uhura glances up at him.

“I tried that; contacted Starfleet, but the system’s on the edge of neutral space, which means they’re not willing to send Ambassadors. And we’re on the move, so they can’t patch someone in -”

They’re interrupted by the ringing noise, and the computer’s automated voice. “Hail from Myata,” the Computer says, and Jim sighs, settling back into his chair.  
 “Answer,” he says, and the old man’s face appears on the screen. Jim tries not to see other features in it.

“Ambassador,” he says, nodding, and the man returns the gesture.  
 “Captain,” he says. “It seems that we have much to discuss.”   
Jim holds back a sigh. “Yes it does.”

-

Doctor M'Benga's hail pulls Spock out of his fifth meditation session.

Spock doesn't answer it. "Computer, ignore the call," he says, and the sound ceases. Uncrossing his legs and pushing himself to his feet, Spock considers the area around him. It's too warm. "Reduce temperature by five degrees," he says," and the air around him slowly grows colder - not enough to cool his blood. Not close to enough. He is far too warm for the air to fix. He doesn't understand how his ancestors could bear it, the heat of the desert and the heat of their mate and the heat of their blood, all combined. He desires the cold snow of Delta Vega, and wet human skin. "Computer, reduce temperature five more degrees," he says. Still not enough, for course. He wants - no, needs - Jim.

His meditation sessions are shortening. His mind, once able to stay focused for up to eight hours, has deteriorated to the stage where he can scarcely stay in it for more then an hour before he is forced to withdraw and seek distraction. Not that sufficient distraction can ever be found - inevitably, he always finds himself forced to return to the fires in his mind. That or seek Jim out and take him under - Spock turns his thoughts elsewhere. One day left.

After his conversation with Spock Prime, Spock had been forced to contemplate the repercussions of his actions - both how they may affect Jim and the Enterprise and the potential ripples that may result from both Spock and his counterpart living in close proximity. It has complicated his decision, but not changed it. He doesn't want Jim to die. Far from it, in fact; he carries the illogical hope that Jim will never die, even if he knows it's inevitable. 

Spock moves away from the meditation area, passing the ashy remains of his incense sticks, dusted over the floor. He'd stopped lighting them less then twenty-four hours after they returned from Myata, when he realized the smell of smoke only amplified his sense of fire.

He sits down at his desk and opens a message on his monitor - a video one, that he'll queue so Doctor McCoy receives it, once he has disembarked the ship. Only twenty-one hours now, Spock reminds himself. Twenty-one hours before he is back on New Vulcan, twenty-one hours before he has an experienced healer to help him through his time.

And only twenty-five hours until he dies from the fire, but Spock tries not to think about that.

To distract himself, he presses the red record button, watching the green light flick on beside the camera lens.

“Doctor McCoy,” he says, shifting in his chair and crossing his fingers in his lap, out of sight of the monitor. “If you have received this message, I have returned to New Vulcan, and am seeking out a cure for my - mental illness. The chances that I will return to this ship are less then five point six two percent; even if I survive my time, I will likely require the assistance of healers for the rest of my life.”

Spock hesitates a moment before continuing; once more it is becoming difficult to think. “If this comes to pass, I will be leaving Jim in your care. As my counterpart has lead me to understand, Jim will require much protection in his years as Captain - which will be long and worthwhile and involve all the members of the crew.

“My counterpart has informed me that Jim risks his life many times over the coming years. This is, of course, to be expected; however, in the prime universe, Spock was able to remain on the Enterprise. He has given me an account of his experiences with Jim, including the multiple times in which it was his intervention that saved Jim, from mortal harm or death itself. In my steed, you must perform these tasks, in order to keep Jim alive and well.

“The first incident is supposed to occur two point seven six years from now, though it may occur earlier or later, because of the changes to our timeline. It happens on Pomona IV - the Enterprise is sent there as a sign of good faith for the beginning of negotiations; the assistant of the Queen attempts to poison Jim with a plant toxin in his toasting wine. I catch the scent of the poison before Jim can drink it and knock it out of his hands.” Spock Prime hadn’t been very clear about what had happened after that, but he had gotten the idea it involved offended delegates and much threatening from both sides, as well as someone getting stabbed in the stomach.

“The next incident occurs only seven point three nine standard months afterward, in unmapped Federation space, when a Klingon vessel attacks the Enterprise with the intent of boarding her and taking the crew’s children as hostages. This is slightly more complicated, as I can give you the Stardate and the exact coordinates, but it is incredibly unlikely either of them will remain precisely constant in our universe. However, the ship is called the Ramanda, and is located at the edge of the Milky Way system, two clicks from neutral space. Additionally -”   
Spock precedes to list all of the events his counterpart had relayed to him - only nine, because the rest all occurred, directly or indirectly, because of something Spock did. Like almost get hit by a spear, or shot by a phaser. There were an - unpleasantly large number of incidents where Jim tried to sacrifice his life for Spock. 

“I am - reluctant to end this message,” Spock says, after he finishes the last story and sits in silence for a few moments. “Despite everything logical, I feel as though this may be - symbolic. Like - poetry, for humans.” Spock hesitates, looking down at his hands, before he returns his gaze to the camera. “I have resolved myself to my fate, and I suggest you do the same. If Jim - I will send this only after I have left the ship, because I know you will not be able to keep this from Jim, and I know what he will do if he finds out.” Spock pauses, again, before continuing. “Please tell Jim that I am - sorry, for the actions I have had to take. Even though that is - illogical.” Spock hesitates again, then nods to himself, if not satisfied with his message then resigned about it’s contents. “Live long and prosper,” he says, and then turns off the message.

He saves it to send at a later date.

-

“- apologize greatly for an inconvenience we might have caused, but I simply do not understand what you mean by intentional.”   
Jim resists the urge to smack his head on the table. “Deliberate, planned, on purpose. Any of those getting through?”   
The Myatan delegate does not look amused. “I understand what you mean,” she says, voice crackling over the connection. “But it does not fit our current situation.”

“Oh, it doesn’t?” Jim says, raising an eyebrow. “Then you better enlighten me, ‘cause I’m not getting what part of being sent as tributes for ancient vampires is unintentional.”

Jim feels like he’s been sitting here forever, repeating the same things over and over again to the myriad of different delegates whatever wackjob runs Myata keeps sending. It’s barely been a day, and he’s already almost wishing he hadn’t left sickbay.

The Myatan on the screen now has tight lips that thin out further as she considers Jim. “As my colleagues have already informed you,” she says, “the men and women you met in the woods were not in their right minds. Their word is an insufficient base for any of your claims.”

“But it’s not -” Jim breaks off, shaking his head. “I am an intelligent person, Ambassador. Do you really think I would accuse you of something like this based off of their word alone?”

The ambassador remains silent, but a muscle in her jaw twitches.

“Spock and I are both scientists,” Jim continues, “and so we know a lot about the art of observation. We found tech with your stamp on it in the middle of the jungle, at the temple. How do you explain that?”

“As I have previously stated, they once lived in our city.”

“I guess I got the wrong idea, then,” Jim says. “I got the impression they were exiled hundred of years ago.”   
“This is correct.”   
“Then how did they get frequency scrambling tech? Either they lived there a lot more recently then a few hundred years ago, or you figured out frequencies then for the last few centuries have just been sitting around with your thumbs up your asses.” Jim pauses, watching the expressions flicker across her face - surprise, defensiveness, outrage and anger. “Or,” he says, “you were helping them.”   
He sees the way she considers his words, tries to figure out what the appropriately diplomatic response would be, the one she could chose whether to confirm or deny later. Finally, she seems to give up, because she just says, “We’ll be back with you shortly,” and then hangs up the call.

Jim lets himself slump in his chair, huffing. Uhura comes up from behind him, setting down the padd she had been taking notes on and picking up another from the table.

“Well, they’ve certainly got a great deflection strategy,” she says, dry as the Sahara, and Jim doesn’t respond, simply shaking his head, almost in disbelief. It could be a decent strategy - if they were an unnamed, unidentified starship that could disappear off into the distance with none the wiser to what had actually happened. 

Which, you know. They weren’t, and all.

“You should be getting back to sickbay,” Bones says from behind him, and Jim doesn’t even turn his head, making a noncommittal noise. “I’m serious, Jim. I didn’t even want you up here this long.”

“Is Spock up yet?” Jim asks, and when he’s greeted with silence, nods. “There you go, then. Someone’s got to deal with the Myatans while he’s meditating.”   
Uhura turns towards him, frowning. “Meditating? Why does he need to meditate?”

“Fixing his shields or something, right?” Jim says, glancing at Bones for support. Bones doesn’t meet his eyes - he looks sort of shifty. Jim’s eyes narrow. “Right?”

““I don’t know why he would need to fix his shields,” Uhura says skeptically. “He’s going back to New Vulcan in a few days, can’t they -”

“What?” Jim asks, straightening in his chair, suddenly alert. “What do you mean he’s going back to New Vulcan?”

“I assumed you knew. He put in the request two days ago, the day after he woke up. We’ve been on our way their since.”

“Nobody told me that,” Jim says, glaring at Bones. Bones holds up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, the details were vague. And I don’t even know what he’s going for, I’m not his doctor -”

“He’s going for medical reasons, then?” Jim asks, glancing at Uhura. She doesn’t look like she has an answer. “Is he hurt? Because if he’s hurt, you need to tell me, I won’t -”

“Spock’s fine,” Uhura says, but Jim is not reassured, especially when she adds, “I think. He wouldn’t tell me why he was going back to the colony. All he said was that I should tell Sulu and the Navigation Department, and if they asked why we were going it was a citizen’s emergency.”

“Citizen as in Spock?” Jim asks. “Emergency as in medical?”

“I don’t know,” Uhura says. “He seemed very - distressed, when I called him.”

“Distressed,” Bones says doubtfully. “Spock.”   
“He does have feelings, you know,” Uhura says, and her eyes narrow when Bones scoffs.   The blocked link at the back of Jim’s mind draws his attention; he considers it, for a moment. He might be able to reach Spock through it, and figure out what was going on - but, no, he couldn’t do that without Spock’s permission. It would be wrong. Besides, he didn’t even know if he was physically capable of doing something like that.

“Has anyone been in there to talk to him?”  
 “Not that I know of,” Uhura replies, “but Vulcans don’t generally like to be disturbed while they’re meditating - if that’s what he’s doing, at least. I can’t think of anything that Spock would want to hide from us - ”

“Well, that’s sort of the point of hiding something,” Bones says, and Uhura gives him a pointed look. He shrugs a bit, defensively. “Hey, it’s the truth, and you know it.”

Jim clenches his jaw and makes a decision. “That’s it,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going to see him.”

Bones’ eyes widen and he pushes himself off of the wall. “Jim, are you crazy? You just got stabbed! You should be in sickbay! You’re lucky I even let you up here, and if you think I’m going to let you go traipsing around the ship -”   
“I wouldn’t be traipsing around the ship, I’d be going down to Spock’s quarters,” Jim says, “which are right next to mine, which is where I’m going anyway.”

“No, you’re going back to sickbay - ”

“Come on, Bones, I just spent two weeks on a desert planet, you think I want to go back to sickbay? Lumpy beds, uncomfortable pillows - ”

“Damnit, Jim, you almost bled out on the transporter pad a week ago. You think I’m letting you out of my sight?”

Jim sighs. “Bones, come on. I’m fine, okay? That’s what the dermal regenerator is for. It’s been four days since I woke up. According to Starfleet reg, that means I’m back in Command, which means I’m back to normal, which means I can do whatever I want.”

“You have internal damage that isn’t healed yet, Jim, you know that.”

“Bones,” Jim says again, tone softer. “I’m fine. Come on, I just want to have a quick conversation with Spock and then I’ll go straight back to my room and lay down, I promise.”

Bones considers Jim for a minute, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Then he sighs, almost reluctantly. “Damnit, Jim,” he says, and Jim knows he’s won. “You’re going to go back to your room, and you’re going to sleep, and then you’re going to wake me when you get up.”

“Fine,” Jim says. “One conversation, and then I’ll go to bed, I promise.”

“I’m serious, Jim,” Bones says. 

“I know you are, Bones,” Jim says.

“If I find out you didn’t go back to your room, I’ll -”

“ - flay me alive. Cut off my balls. Slice - ”

“ - give you a hypospray,” Bones says, and Jim winces.

“Got it. Loud and clear.” He nods to Uhura in the corner, who waves a hand in his general direction. A clear dismissal, and normally he might protest that - he is the Captain, after all - but he’s sick of this room. 

“I’ll call you when I wake up,” he says to Bones, and then takes off towards Spock’s room.

-

Spock has resolved himself to leaving when someone knocks on his door.

He is in the process of meditating when it comes - or in the process of trying to meditate. He’s been sitting here, legs crossed and wrists turned outward, for almost half an hour, struggling to get his mind under control. Twelve hours until the Enterprise arrives at New Vulcan.

The noise is so unexpected that he cannot hide his startling - which is partially a result of his lack of control, but still shameful. He swallows, hard, as he considers the possibilities of who could be at his door. Doctor M’Benga could have come to check on him - but no, he would know enough to not visit him in this state. And he would order everyone else against it as well. Only one person has the authority to ignore those orders.

“Captain, please leave immediately.”

Spock can imagine Jim’s sigh, right now, the annoyance and exasperation and maybe a little bit of nervousness. “Let me in, Spock,” he says over the intercom; his voice alone is enough, at this stage, to get Spock’s heart pounding faster: the knowledge that his bondmate is within reach, and all he needs to do is give the door his code, open it and he can - 

“You need to leave, Captain,” Spock repeats, more urgently this time. If Jim comes within his reach, there is nothing that will stop him from taking Jim, nothing.

“Spock, don’t be ridiculous. Let me in or I’ll use my override codes.”

“No,” Spock growls. His tone is laced with something, but he doesn’t know if it’s want or anger - he has never experienced pon farr before. He does not know what he could do to Jim if his time came and he was not aware. He does not know -

“Spock, you have to tell me what’s wrong. I’m - I’m really worried about you.”

“Jim, you cannot -” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath to try to rein in his emotions. 

He allows himself to examine the blocked bond for a moment. It makes his blood flare, but the minute glance is enough to read the apprehension in jim's mind, the nervousness - and the determination, because when does Jim Kirk do something with determination? Jim will not give in. Spock knows this, just as he knows that Jim will stand outside his door stubbornly knocking until Spock either lets him in or he decides to use his override codes. Waiting for the inevitable will do nothing to strengthen Spock's shields, but the continued proximity to Jim will do something to weaken it, therefore it is only logical to allow him to enter.

Ironic, how logical it can be to give in to one’s emotions.

And that makes him think that maybe it’s wrong to give in to his emotions. His logic is corrupted, he already knows that; so why is he trusting it now? Is it only because it may sate his urges? Is it his primal nature, attempting to draw him closer to his bondmate? Perhaps it is Spock’s own unconcious desires - the ones he has held for far longer then pon farr has gripped him - that is justifying his decisions, that is making him think it is right to do this to Jim, making him thinking it is uncontrollable to think about Jim this way - 

“Computer, override code Alpha Tiberius seven null gamma six Sam,” Jim says, and the door slides open obediently. 

There he is. Just the sight of Spock’s bondmate makes him go hard. He clenches his fingers tight on the edge of his chair, forcing himself to stay where he is. His vision is fuzzy, dancing with red shapes, and he focuses on them, trying to distract himself. He fails miserably; he can only think of Jim, when he is so close.

“I’m sorry I broke in,” Jim says carefully. He’s wearing a strange expression and making slow movements, like a hunter around prey - or like prey around a hunter. Like a injured gazelle around a sleeping wolf. Scared to wake the beast.

Spock cannot tell him the beast is already woken.

“It was - unwise, of you, to come in here,” he says. He knows he should look away from Jim - it would calm his blood, however minimally - but he cannot tear his gaze away. He is like a dying man in the desert, and Jim is water; Spock takes in the curve of his cheekbones, his sharp jawline, his piercing gaze. So blue, his eyes are so blue -

“I’m worried about you, Spock,” Jim says. “You were acting strange, on the planet, when we were beaming up. And you weren’t in sickbay when I woke up. I was -” He shakes his head, but Spock can tell where his thoughts were headed. I was expecting you to be there. The horrible ache in Spock’s chest is not from the pon farr, Spock knows; he swallows hard against the figurative lump in his throat, and tries not to think about how disappointing he’s been. 

“I am sorry, Jim,” he says, the flare of his blood at his bondmate’s name worth the minute softening of Jim’s facial features. “I did not intend - I do not want to hurt you.”  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Jim says. He crosses his arms against his chest, leaning back against the wall of Spock’s entryway. It would be polite to welcome Jim inside, but Spock cannot. “Why can’t I feel you in my mind anymore?”

“What?” Spock asks. The link - bond - between him and Jim is fully functional, Spock checked several times - 

“I can’t hear your thoughts,” Jim says, “like when we were in the forest? It’s just silence, like it was when you had the bond blocked. Did you block it again?”

“I - I had to,” Spock says, mouth suddenly dry. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Why?”

“It’s -” Spock stops himself. “It’s something I cannot talk about, it’s - well, it’s -”

“It’s why you’re going back to New Vulcan, isn’t it?” Jim asks, uncrossing his arms and taking a few steps towards Spock. Spock clenches his jaw as he draws nearer, but Jim stops at the other side of Spock’s desk - so close, but yet so far. Spock need only take a few steps, and he could have him, bend him over the desk and make him beg for it - “And I can see you thinking; Uhura told me. I guess it wasn’t some big secret, though, because by the time I woke up, everyone on the ship seemed to know.”

Spock clears his throat, and does not correct Jim. “Yes,” he says instead, deciding there is no point in lying. If Jim already knows - if the entire crew already knows - “It is a... problem with my shields.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”   
Spock glances up, surprised. Jim is just staring at him, face devoid of expression, though Spock can feel it through their bond. Annoyance, determination, anger. "This isn't a problem with your mental shields. They haven't been attacked since they night in the desert, and you were fine for the next three or four days. Or at least you weren't like this. This didn't start until the guy in the temple tried to kill me." Spock stiffens, a little, and Jim notices. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Jim is moving again, closer to Spock, so tantalizingly close… He stops at the edge of the desk, planting his hands on the surface and leaning down, nearer to Spock. He is one point - no, two point - no, zero point - It occurs to Spock he that cannot tell how close Jim is to him. His mind has broken and is refusing to do the calculations. "I want to know what happened to you in the forest, when that guy tried to kill me. I want to know what's going on."

And even if Spock didn’t want to tell him, he has a right to know. He is a bondmate of a Vulcan now - not legally, not yet, but technically. Spock would not be prosecuted for explaining it to him - especially not if his explanation resulted in their procreation, because then he would be a proper bondmate, then their bond could never be broken - 

Spock must cease his thoughts immediately. He cannot have intercourse with Jim. Jim does not want a bond with him. Jim does not even like Spock, most of the time. They argue almost constantly and very rarely do they see eye to eye on any point whatsoever; and yet. Jim has the right to know. 

“It is called pon farr,” Spock says, and Jim pushes himself back off the desk, straightening. He looks satisfied, if not any less concerned. 

“Pon farr?” Jim asks, frowning slightly. “I’ve never heard of it. And I mean - I’ve read dozens of books on Vulcan, and I speak the language passably, but I’ve never heard of pon farr.”  “That is because we don’t speak of it to outsiders,” Spock says. “It is - the one true weakness of our race; the time when all logic is burned from our systems by the plak tow.”

“Plak tow?” Jim repeats, frowning. “Doesn’t that mean -”

“Blood fever,” Spock says. “It comes before the true time, the persists until one takes a mate.”

Jim’s eyebrows shoot up. “A -”   
“Pon farr is the time of mating,” Spock says, and Jim does not move. His eyes are wide, and Spock can feel his shock through the bond - mingled with confusion, because Jim does not yet understand how this effects Spock’s mental state.

“I should be more thorough in my explanation,” Spock says, glancing down at his hands - once folded in his lap, they are now twisting together in something vaguely resembling a nervous tick. He does not have the energy nor the concentration to still them. “Once every seven years, Vulcans must take a mate or die; they must be bonded, telepathically, and the ceremony often takes place as children, when we are seven years of age. In the following years, our minds have time to become familiar with each other, and synchronize, so that we can bond properly when our time comes.”   
Spock hesitates before continuing. “When we reach the proper age - usually at thirty, though it can vary for up to three years depending on the Vulcan - we enter the blood fever. This is when our mates can choose to take us into their beds or challenge the claim. If we are challenged, we must fight their opposer for the right to the woman. If we win, she becomes our bondmate. If we loose, we die.”   
Jim’s eyes widen further. “You - what?”  “It is called the kal-if-fee, and it is a fight to the death. If we do not wish to fight, we can concede - but then we must find a proper mate within two weeks, or we will die from the blood fever.”

“You’ll - ” Jim shakes his head, holding up a hand. “Wait a second. You’re telling me that you - what, if you don’t fuck somebody, you die?”

“I would not say that is entirely accurate,” Spock says, “but the general gist of it is correct, yes. I was never close to my mate, but she perished in the fall of Vulcan, leaving me bondless. I should have at least three more years until my time, but - ” Spock cuts himself off.

“But what?” Jim asks. “What triggered this, Spock? And why did - why did you go into it on the planet, of all places?”

“My theory is multifaceted,” Spock says. “For one, many members of my race have been experiencing premature pon farr, brought on from the need to repopulate. Additionally, we were on a desert planet, a place highly resembling my own home, and Vulcans must return to our birthplace for pon farr. Also - ” Spock hesitates. “I am ashamed of my actions, and do not wish to tell you this.”

“What, Spock?”   
“Jim, when I mentally linked my mind to yours, I did not - I did it improperly.”

“What? Spock -”

“I believe I may have - ” The silence is heavy, and makes the sound of Spock’s blood thudding in his own ears that much more prominent. “I believe I may have created a bond.”

Silence. The thumping of Spock’s heart. Fire, scattered all over his body, burning. Jim’s face, unreadable, the need to exert conscious desire not to look at the bond, not to read Jim’s thoughts, his privacy - 

“What does that mean?”

Jim sounds - unreadable, like the expression on his face. He is hiding his emotions, somewhere, and it is taking all of Spock’s self control to keep from looking into his mind and finding out where. 

“As my bondmate, I will be drawn to you at my time,” Spock says. Jim inhales sharply, and Spock hurries to explain. “I still have a full standard day before I am forced to - procreate, and the ship arrives at New Vulcan in approximately twelve standard hours. I plan to disembark the ship and seek the help of Vulcan healers to ease the blood fever - ”

“But you’ll die without a mate,” Jim says.

“Yes,” Spock says, “but I will die on the ship or off of it. If you leave now, and lock the door, I can promise no harm will come to you. I will not - you are not at a risk from me, ever. I would never - ” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. It does not help the flames, only amplifies them, in the darkness with nothing else to focus on. “I would never force you to have me, Jim.”   
“Maybe you wouldn’t be forcing me.”   
Spock’s eyes shoot open. Jim is staring at him, still emotionless, still - “What?” Spock asks, because he does not know what else to say. 

“You heard me,” Jim says, and he seems to square himself. As though preparing for an attack. “When have I ever said no to fucking anyway?”

“Jim this is not - this is not a one-night stand with a girl you would never see again.”

“So? I’m not going to let you die, Spock.”   
“Jim, if we were - this would cement the bond. You cannot break a bond once it has been consummated in the fires of the blood fever.”

“So? We’re best friends, Spock. A link between our minds would be cool.”

Spock clenches his teeth. “Jim, this is not - this is not a laughing matter, nor is it something to be trifled with. It is a marriage bond, Jim.”   
Jim shrugs. “Worse things have happened between friends in Vegas.”   
Snarling, Spock leaps from his seat, whirling away from Jim. “I do not want your pity, Jim! I do not want a bond with someone who does not want me!” He whirls back to face Jim, and finally there is an emotion on his face - surprise, hurt. Spock feels as bad about the latter emotion as he does indifferent. “I understand that you do not have romantic feelings towards me, and I understand that this bond makes it difficult for you. But I will not spend the rest of my life bonded to the man I am in love with when he has made it abundantly clear that he only wishes to be friends - ”

“You’re in love with me?”   
Spock continues on as if he had not spoken. “For months I have been forced to watch you from afar, flirting with others; do you think I could do this while we were mated? I would be able to read your thoughts towards them, Jim, I would feel your attraction and daily I would be forced to accept that it was not directed towards me - ”

Jim’s lips are on his own. 

It’s the touch Spock has been craving, cool and wet and perfect to counteract the heat - only it isn’t. Every point where they connect to his is sending heat through Spock’s body in waves, pulsing straight down to his already-hard cock. Spock kisses Jim back without thought, swiping his tongue against Jim’s lower lip as he presses himself closer. He cannot help it - his judgement is impaired, and he needs to procreate or die, and his mate is right here, kissing him -

Jim pulls back, delicious heat fading with the loss of contact and flaring into something more frustrating. Spock feels the urge to growl. “Spock,” Jim says. His hand has found it’s way onto the back of Spock’s neck, where his fingers are intertwined with the hair at it’s nape and where it’s sending the same strange waves of heat as his mouth had. “It is directed towards you. It’s always been directed towards you. Spock, I’m in love with you.”

The words actually take a moment to process - the heat and the lust and surrealism of the situation all combining to make Spock question himself and his senses. He could be going crazy, after all, this could all be an illusion -

I love you, Spock, Jim says in Spock’s mind, mental voice clear and undeniable and there. For a moment, Spock just stands there, suspended in a state of disbelief, and then the darkness he has been holding in his chest for so long unfurls. The guilt for wanting Jim, the self-hatred for never being what Jim wanted, the anger and loss when his control - the last thing he had left - was taken away.

Jim wants him. Jim is - he wants - Spock surges forward suddenly, hands coming up to Jim’s hips in a firm grip - firm but not hard enough to be painful - and takes Jim’s lips in a bruising kiss.

Jim reciprocates immediately, licking into Spock’s mouth. It’s not a perfect kiss, not by a long shot - though Spock does not have much experience with kisses anyway. Their teeth clack together and Jim bites down on Spock’s lip in a way that is not entirely pleasurable, but that just makes it better, more like real life and less like a dream. Beneath Spock’s skin, his blood is boiling, and behind his closed eyelids, everything has turned red. Jim detaches their mouthes just long enough so he can lean back to pull his shirt over his head, and Spock uses the time to do the same with his own, tossing the clothing to the side as he reconnects their lips. “Spock,” Jim murmurs against them, and Spock reaches for the waist of Jim’s pants, thumbs brushing over the smooth skin of Jim’s hipbones. He fumbles with the button, but he takes too long and loses any patience he might have had with the zipper; he rips the fly of Jim’s pants open and pushes them down to his ankles, the metal tabs tearing apart with a screech.

“Fuck,” Jim mutters around Spock’s lips, and Spock growls, low in his chest. He presses his hands tighter into Jim’s hips. They are stumbling towards the bed, tripping and falling around each other and somehow managing, but the pace is too slow for Spock. Using his hold on Jim’s waist, Spock shoves him up against the wall of the bulkhead, ignoring the thud of his body hitting the metal wall. Jim’s mouth falls open into a small ‘o’, and he swallows hard as he closes it, kicking his feet free of the legs of his jeans. “Come on, Spock,” he mutters, heart rate accelerating. Spock can both hear it and feel it - through their minds, through their bond. Spock pulls his hands away from Jim only long enough to remove his own trousers. “Come on,” Jim says again, and then Spock is falling to his knees, kissing and licking his way down Jim’s chest to his cock.

“Fuck, Spock,” Jim says, already breathless, speaking so quiet Spock can barely hear his own name. Spock flicks his tongue at the head, down the shaft of Jim’s cock, and Jim all but melts into Spock’s firm grip. “Jesus,” he says, as Spock plays his tongue around his slip. “Fuck,” and Spock pulls back to suck at the head for a moment before he removes his mouth completely. Jim whines, immediately, in protest, but he barely has time to, because then Spock is taking Jim’s cock all the way into his mouth, swallowing him up as far as he can go without gagging.

Above him, Jim has gone boneless against the ship’s wall, one hand on Spock’s shoulder and the other tangled in his hair, eyes closed and head tilted backwards. A sense of pleasure shoots through Spock at the sight and the knowledge that he has brought it about - that he is the one who brought his mate this satisfaction, he is the one who is responsible for his state. Jim’s hips buck forward into Spock’s mouth, like he can’t control them, but Spock holds them back, exerting carefully measured and still bruising strength.

“Spock,” Jim whines as Spock sucks Jim’s cock, cheeks hollowing. “Spock - ” Jim gasps, stilling momentarily in Spock’s grasp as Spock’s tongue flicks out at the head of Jim’s cock. For him, Jim is falling apart for him. He’s wiggling even more insistently, too, whole torso thrusting forward into Spock’s unyielding grasp, like that would grant him release. “Spock, please -” Spock presses his thumbs deeper into Jim’s skin, feeling the bruises he’s leaving as his cheeks hollow.

And then, suddenly, so close to Jim’s climax, Spock pulls his mouth away. The sound Jim males at the loss barely seems human, it is so desperate. In a smooth movement, Spock pushes himself to his feet, hands dropping from Jim’s waist. One comes up onto the wall beside Jim’s head, the other reaching down to grab Jim’s cock by the base. He strokes Jim slowly, not enough to grant him release but enough to keep him hard and begging. “Turn around,” he says, voice quiet but low and demanding with lust and need. Jim obeys immediately, turning and bending, giving Spock a spectacular view of his posterior as he braces himself against the wall.

Spock pulls Jim’s hips back farther towards him, keeping one hand wrapped around the base of Jim’s cock while the other traces the crack of his buttocks, tantalizingly slow. Then, unhurriedly, Spock slips his fingers between his cheeks and traces Jim’s hole. Jim bites back a moan and leans back into Spock’s touch, seeking more contact, and slowly Spock slips a finger inside him, careful but insistent. He pulls his still-stroking hand away from Jim’s cock for a moment, and Jim protests the loss of contact, but it is only momentary - Spock’s just gone long enough to retrieve the bottle from his top dresser drawer. He uncaps it with surprisingly steady fingers, slicking himself up with a generous amount of lubricant. Then, bracing one hand against the wall beside Jim’s shoulder, he presses his two wet fingers inside of Jim, carefully loosening the ring of tight muscles.

In his mind, Spock can feel Jim’s presence, and hear his thoughts - even if they aren’t entirely coherent. Spock, need, want, Spock, Jim thinks, a mantra of different words all bleeding together, and his voice is like a cool river in the heat of a desert. Everything it touches it seems to cool. 

Spock presses a third finger inside of Jim, still stretching despite the looseness of Jim’s muscles. He bends his fingers a bit, experimentally, and Jim moans, head falling down so his forehead rests against the wall. “Do it, Spock, come on, just fuck me already,” he says, and Spock bends his fingers again, grazing again against the spot that was the source of Jim’s pleasure. Jim makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, and says again, “Please, Spock.” He sounds more desperate, now, and he continues, “Fuck me, please, come on -”

Spock pulls his fingers from Jim slowly, careful not to overstimulate the muscles at his entrance. Removing his hand from Jim’s shoulder, he once again braces himself with Jim’s hip, the bone sharp against Spock’s fingers. With his free hand, Spock quickly slicks himself up with lubricant, before he tosses the half-empty bottle on the floor, by their clothing. He places his other hand onto Jim’s hip. His fingers trace the backwards red marks he had pressed into Jim’s skin only moments ago, and he feels a wave of pride at the knowledge that he was the cause of them. He was the one that reduced his proud Captain to this state, bent over and begging for Spock’s cock.

Spock lines the head of his cock up to Jim’s hole and slowly pushes inside of him.

He feels Jim’s pain through their bond, a burning point of throbbing in his posterior, but it is a pleasant one. Jim presses back against him, until Spock is entirely buried inside Jim, right down his entire shaft. For a moment, he simply stands there, ignoring the ache of his body to do move while he lets Jim’s muscles adjust to his intrusion. Finally, Jim says, “Move, Spock, please,” sounding wrecked but still too coherent for Spock’s liking. He moves slowly at first, gathering speed, but as Jim starts to loosen he goes faster, and his thrusts are more smooth. The head of his cock brushes against Jim’s prostate, and Jim moans. Spock thrusts into him again at the same angle, once more touching it. Beneath him, Jim’s muscles tremble.

“Again,” Jim says, “Please, Spock, again - fuck, you feel so good, inside me -”

Jim’s thoughts are pure pleasure and arousal, and Spock allows himself to fall into them a though they are his own, as though this cool humanity belongs to him - and it does, almost. With Jim’s thoughts running through Spock’s mind - his please, Spock’s, and more, Spock’s, and the feeling of lovewantlustlove that’s tight in his chest - Spock thrusts into Jim again, and once more, and twice more, and three times, and then he climaxes, more strongly then he ever has before.

For a moment, red spots and light dance across his vision, blinding him. Then it clears, leaving Spock with a somewhat-cleared mind and a view of Jim bent over in front of him, still painfully hard. Removing one hand from Jim’s waist, Spock wraps his hand around Jim’s cock, stroking it, and quickly settling into a rhythm. He sends Jim the feeling of pleasure Spock had experienced when he came, and with a cry, Jim comes, all over his stomach and Spock’s hand.

For a moment, they are both silent as Spock pulls himself out of Jim, taking a step back, even though he already feels the rise of the fever at the loss of contact. Jim turns around so he is facing Spock, but he still stays pressed up against the wall, as though he is afraid he might collapse otherwise. The thought brings Spock pride.  
 “Oh my god,” Jim says, voice somewhat hoarse. Spock considers him carefully, but he appears no less pleased then he was a few moments before, and no more remorseful either. Spock continues watching him for a moment, listening to the unintentionally-projected thoughts in his mind, but he does not find any trace of regret or awkwardness - simply awe, and affection, and satiation.

Spock, unfortunately, is not feeling the same pleasant after-effects as Jim.

Jim raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Spock’s twitching cock. Spock cannot help it; he takes in Jim’s form, laid out for him and ready to take, and it twitches again, beginning to grow hard. “Vulcans recover fast, don’t they,” he says. His tone is impossible to read; it’s almost a mix between awe and fear, though why Jim would feel that towards Spock’s genitals, Spock does not know.

“Affirmative,” Spock says. “However, I understand that humans need more time to recover, and I can wait as long as necessary.” He tries to get his tone and body to comply with the message he is trying to send, but fails - his voice is stiff and somewhat curt, and his muscles are squared, half-hard cock clearly on display.

“Oh, I can tell,” Jim says dryly, pursing his lips, but the expression quickly fades into a smile - at first, it is amused, but then it turns suggestive. “You know, humans don’t usually take that long to recover,” he says, reaching out to grab Spock’s arm and pull him back towards the wall. “But, you know, I just came pretty hard. I might need some extra time.”

Spock nods, attempting to be understanding. He is preparing to speak when Jim continues, “While we wait, I might have some ideas of what to do.”

Jim is moving closer to him, mouth inches from Spock’s ear, and Spock almost considers the fact that this is happening. Such an obvious fact and yet so hard to grasp; Jim is pressing his lips to Spock’s neck, Jim is resting his hands on Spock’s waste, Jim is accepting his role as Spock’s partner and Spock’s lover and Spock’s mate.

But Spock doesn’t see the point of dwelling on it; instead, he lets himself succumb.  
-

When the last fires of pon farr finally fade completely, Spock is unsure of what time it is; his internal clock, once so carefully controlled, seems to have been reset, and is now awaiting recalibration. Much like the rest of him - the fires are dead, and he feels fresh, new, like he has been sent back to the beginning of a cycle. And he has, he supposes.

As he lies there, he slowly becomes aware of the world around him. He is laying on a bed - the last dim memory he has is of pressing Jim up against a wall, and while he is curious when they moved here, he knows they spend the last indeterminable amount of time all over this room - and the sheets are pooled around his ankles, damp with sweat and ejaculate. His body is curved on it’s side against someone - cool, soft, smooth. He can feel the heartbeat pulsing through their veins, slow and sluggish. Spock opens his eyes to the back of Jim’s head, and his battered back.

He is not sleeping; Spock can tell that from the pace of his breathing. It is too fast for Jim to be sleeping. But he doesn’t think Jim knows Spock is awake yet, either. So Spock allows himself several moments to indulge, to take in Jim’s back and the stretch of his undoubtedly sore muscles, the bruises Spock can already see rising on his arms - rings like manacles in the shape of fingers. A few hours ago, the thought might have brought him pleasure - seeing Jim marked for him - and it still does. To a degree. But now, Spock is more consciousness of the pain Jim must be in then the pleasure of claiming his mate.

“Jim,” Spock says finally, when the guilt stewing in his stomach becomes too much to bear, and Jim visibly startles, turning in Spock’s grasp. Spock’s mind is clear, but he cannot hear Jim’s thoughts as well as he had before. They are sleepy and slow and muffled by exhaustion.

Is the fire over he sounds normal - “Spock? Are you back?”

He sees the half-formed memories in Jim’s mind, Spock’s face as he had relentlessly driven himself into Jim, the pleasure and pain that mingled in the memories. Three days, it’s been three days. 

“I am sorry, Jim,” Spock says, and Jim waves off the praise. He acts nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter at all, and while Spock can feel the falsity of this he also feels it’s validity. It certainly meant something, but Jim does not regret it. If anything, he is - glad, that it happened.

“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for,” Jim says, smirking. “It’s a shame, really. I don’t get nonstop sex for - what was it, seven more years?”

“Your time figures are correct,” Spock says, and adds, mentally, though Vulcans do have intercourse outside of the pon farr.

Jim doesn’t visibly startle at the feel of Spock’s thoughts in his mind, but Spock can feel his surprise. I forgot we could do that now, he says, somewhat sheepish but pleased - always pleased. It’s like an undercurrent to his thoughts, a constant Spock has never before felt in someone’s mind. Maybe it is simply residual emotions from their procreation, but he does not believe he could have brought Jim that much pleasure. Especially considering the number and harshness of the times Spock had penetrated him.

No, Jim must just be - happy, now. Happy with Spock. The thought makes Spock pleased in turn; it is like something warm is shining inside his chest, like sunlight is filling his lungs instead of air. Heat, all over, but it is gentle, comfortable. For lack of a better word - nice.

“Yes, and now we have the Vulcan experiencing happiness,” Jim is saying. Spock refocuses, on Jim’s face now instead of his mind. Jim is smiling. “Ladies and Gentlemen, gather ‘round.”

“I have felt happiness before, Jim,” Spock says amusedly, and Jim cocks an eyebrow at him. His face is unbruised, untouched, as perfect as it was before he entered Spock’s quarters. An understanding passes through them, unspoken: neither of them will question this. Neither of them regret this. Neither of them will reflect on their idiocy and obliviousness for not seeing their mutual attraction sooner. Or, at least, they won’t yell at themselves yet. Right now, both of them are happy.

There is no uncertainty in his voice.

“Whatever you say,” Jim says, but his smile has softened around the edges, and Spock knows he understands. “I think I might go back to sleep now.”

“For once - a favorable suggestion.”

Jim snorts, turning back onto his side. He presses back into Spock slightly, and Spock tightens the arm he has thrown around Jim’s waist, resettling his head next to Jim’s on the pillow. There is a twenty-two point nine two percent chance that one of Jim’s hairs will get caught in his nostril and cause him to sneeze, but it is worth the risk. “Whoever said Vulcans don’t joke,” he said, and Spock feels a smile tugging at his lips.

“Sleep,” he says, and Jim makes a noise of assent, curling in closer to his pillow. And then - and Spock will likely deny this later, blame it on the aftereffects of pon farr - adds, “I will be here when you wake up.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Jim says. “I know.”

Everything else remains unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god. I have spent so long writing this/editing this/avoiding working on this that it seems ridiculous that it could be over. I just - holy shit. Holy, holy, shit. This fic was a lot of firsts for me. My first star trek fic. My first _real_ epic fic. (I wrote a 50,000 word fic in sixth and seventh grade, but. I mean. Sixth and seventh grade.) My first smut scene. (Good lord, the smut scene.) My first time doing a big bang. My first time collaborating with someone on a fic (whether it be a beta, an artist, or a fanmixer). It's just really - I don't know, a big milestone for me, I guess, so I want to thank foxycasbones, my awesome editor, peculiaritea, my awesome fanmixer, and chosenfire28, my awesome artist (even though she hasn't posted yet). Thank you guys so much!


End file.
